


Lo/Hi

by FreshAfterDark, nastea



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Emotional Slow Burn, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Face-Fucking, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Steve Has PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshAfterDark/pseuds/FreshAfterDark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastea/pseuds/nastea
Summary: It’s probably just because he’s stoned, but Steve can’t help but crack up. His laugh sounds a little manic, a little out of it, which is really only fitting: Stevefeelsout of it. He can't shake the feeling that he’s stepped into an alternate reality, or some sort of diverging timeline, and it all started when he first sat down in the passenger seat of Billy Hargrove’s car looking to buy some weed.(Or, the one where we pretend season three didn’t happen and pick up right where season two left off.)
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 114
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y’all! Fresh and I are back with another collab — our second within the Harringrove fandom, and one we’ve been working on for a while. There’s a surprising amount of whump and plot in this one, as well as a totally unsurprising amount of smut. 
> 
> This is essentially our re-write of season 3, written as a series of vignettes centered on Billy and Steve’s relationship and how it could have been.
> 
> We hope you enjoy the ride. Please share your thoughts with us in the comments, or come hit us up on our tumblrs: [nastea](https://tea-otter.tumblr.com/) and [freshafterdark](https://freshafterdark.tumblr.com/)!

**December 21st, 1984**

“Good luck,” Steve says as he clasps hands with Dustin, who gives him an affirmative little nod in return before he slips out the passenger-side door. God knows he probably needs it after Steve personally coached him on how to style his hair and talk to girls — because it isn’t like Steve is some kind of authority on women, or like his advice is even any _good_ anymore.

As if right on cue, Steve catches sight of Nancy through the window while he’s watching Dustin step through the front doors to the Snow Ball. She’s all dolled up for the evening, her hair piled on top of her head in tight curls, and she’s laughing with someone. Even from profile, Steve can see the way her smile lights up her face and her eyes crinkle at the corners. She looks _happy_.

Because of course she is.

Steve feels like his heart has dropped into the pit of his stomach. Like the last two months of trying to forget about her have been all for nothing.

Bitterness wells up in the back of his throat. He rolls his eyes at himself, shifts off the brake, and drives away from the parking lot of Hawkins Middle School before anyone can catch him staring.

 _‘Pretend like I don’t care’._ Right.

What a fucking joke.

*

Lover’s Lake is so utterly still tonight that it looks frozen, its mirror-like surface reflecting the pale glow of the waning moon and the faint pinpricks of starlight that dot the velvet black sky. It’s the kind of scene that might have struck Steve as peaceful, maybe even pretty, if not for the dull ache in his chest and the unease itching at the nape of his neck.

The thing is, Nancy Wheeler isn’t all that Steve’s been trying to forget.

It’s as if he’d made some kind of involuntary association between Nancy and everything he’s been carefully bottling up since last summer, when he first came face-to-face with a living nightmare. Or maybe it’s harder to pretend like he has everything under control when there’s no one around to play tough for. Since his fall from popularity, Steve has lost his captive audience, his so-called friends, and his girlfriend. All that he has left now is— what? A thirteen year old kid who looks up to him for some reason?

He’s alone, in other words. It’s exactly what Steve has been trying to avoid — _desperately_ , once upon a time. Everything’s just so backwards these days. Steve’s still trying to recalibrate, like maybe he can get back to something resembling normalcy, like maybe it’s hidden just around the corner and all he has to do is keep moving forward, but he feels so—

 _Stuck_. Stuck on Nancy Wheeler. Stuck on that feeling that there’s still danger lurking in the dark.

It’s driving Steve fucking _crazy._

It might explain why he’s here: Lover’s Lake, after dark, sitting in his car and staring at a familiar navy blue Camaro parked beside a tree not fifty feet away. Steve thinks he can see a single silhouette in the driver’s seat, but can’t make out any details besides, and he isn’t sure why that leaves him more nervous than he would have been if he’d stumbled across Billy Hargrove fooling around with a girl.

It’s probably because this means he has no good excuses to not follow through with what he’s come here for.

Either way, it’s stupid — that he’s anxious, that he bothered to come, that Tommy couldn’t just sell him the damn weed himself. He’d told Steve when and where to find Hawkins’ only dealer ( _doubtful_ , Steve’s reasonably sure that Tommy is full of shit), likely assuming that Steve isn’t going to go out of his way to have any encounters with Billy that he can otherwise avoid.

And he’d have been right, except that Steve has reached some kind of tipping point tonight. He’s ready for something, and whether it’s a buzz, or a distraction, or a kick in the teeth, at least it beats wallowing alone in his parents’ empty house all night.

Or, Steve figures it should. He isn’t actually sure what to expect. Billy Hargrove hasn’t hassled him since their show-down at the Byers’ house. Either Max’s threats of unholy retribution had sent him running off with his tail between his legs, or Billy had gotten all his pent-up aggression out on Steve’s face and just doesn’t give a shit about harassing him, anymore.

It’s been a nice change, if a little jarring. Steve hadn’t expected the cool reception during their subsequent basketball practices, nor had he anticipated that Billy would more or less ignore if not outright avoid him. He’s thankful for it. After all the shit he’s had to deal with these past couple months, the last thing Steve needs is for Billy to continually find new and inventive ways to push him around at every opportunity.

Coming to him might very well be asking for it, though; Steve doubts that Billy is any less of a raging asshole just because his fire has turned to ice.

Not like Steve’s frightened of him — how could he be? He’s fought a fucking _Demogorgon_.

Still, he wonders if maybe he should be grabbing the studded baseball bat he keeps hidden in his trunk when he steps out into the chilled night. It’s not so much because he thinks Billy might jump him and steal his wallet, it’s because he can’t stop noticing how the tree branches look like twisted claws, or how the beam of Billy’s headlights catches on the grass and casts elongated shadows across the ground that resemble discorporated tendrils.

Steve’s hands are balled into fists at his sides by the time he reaches the Camaro, and for a moment he’s frozen there for reasons aside from the frigid bite of the night air. It’s almost a good thing that the window is still shut, because it means Steve can forget his apprehension long enough to feel a jolt of annoyance.

He raps at the driver side window more forcibly than he has to, and can’t help but feel surprised when it immediately rolls down.

Billy isn’t looking at him.

There’s an unlit cigarette loosely dangling from between his lips, and for a long moment he doesn’t so much as grace Steve with a sidelong glance, staring straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel like there’s something more interesting to look at between the unstirring lake and the dark treeline beyond the windshield. There isn’t, and they both know this, but apparently Billy’s cool treatment transcends any real rhyme or reason, because for a long moment he acts like Steve isn’t even there.

It takes Steve clearing his throat — which he does after a moment spent wondering if this is even worth it (he thinks it probably isn’t, but then again, neither are the sleepless nights and the constant, furtive glances over his shoulder every time he’s startled) before Billy finally acknowledges him. His eyes dart out the open window, scan Steve up and down, and then settle straight ahead again to stare at something in the middle-distance.

There’s another long beat of silence before Billy reaches for his cigarette and plucks it out of his mouth.

“The hell you want, Harrington?”

He sounds about as tired as Steve feels and just as wary, like he thinks that maybe someone’s going to come after him for talking to Steve when it’s after dark and anyone who might have beef with him is busy at the Snow Ball.

Steve isn’t sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it’s been nice being left alone. On the other, though: the reason it’s even like this is because Billy’s thirteen-year old sister drugged and threatened him. It doesn’t quite sit right with Steve that his knight in shining armor is some teenage pipsqueak — one that doesn’t even have superpowers.

He should probably be grateful; if that fight had lasted any longer, he would’ve gotten out with much worse than a busted face and a minor concussion.

And now he’s trying to buy weed off the guy.

This is so fucking _stupid_.

“Tommy told me you were selling,” Steve manages to dislodge the words from behind his teeth where they’d been stubbornly sticking for the past three seconds. Restless, he shoves his fists into his jacket pocket to keep them away from the stinging chill — because it’s freezing out tonight, Steve can see the puffs of his breath hanging in the air with every exhale — and waits impatiently for what he thinks is inevitable.

Billy is going to tell him to fuck off. Steve can practically _feel_ it festering in the icy silence that passes between them. Billy isn’t going to sell him anything, either because he isn’t actually selling or he just isn’t selling to _Steve_ , and that will be that. Steve will storm off, pride stinging and nerves frayed, and he’ll be back to square one: stealing booze from his parents’ liquor cabinet and wishing he hadn’t burned through his last pack of Marlboro Reds.

So, Steve isn’t sure what to make of it when Billy rolls his head to the side to level him with an appraising look, like he’s trying to figure out if Steve is worth his time. He looks Steve top to bottom again, contemplative, and maybe he thinks that he can upcharge Steve, or maybe tonight’s slow and he’s desperate for buyers, because he finally sits up straighter and unlocks the passenger door.

Steve stares at him, frowning in bewilderment — why the hell would Billy unlock his door if all he intends to do is sell him some weed? — when Billy lets out a put-upon sigh and gives him an eye-roll so precise that Steve can’t help but wonder how often it’s been practiced.

“Get in the car, dipshit,” Billy drawls. Then, before Steve can get a word in edgewise, he rolls the window back up. Steve is left staring and indignant; he wonders, not for the first time, if he should cut his losses and get the hell out of here while he still has the chance.

Steve isn’t sure what compels him to instead walk around to the other side of the Camaro. It’s like his body’s moving on autopilot when he swings open the unlocked passenger-side door and ducks inside, slamming it shut behind him.

Of all the many stupid and impulsive things Steve has done in his life, getting into Billy Hargrove’s car has to rank high among them.

They’re alone now. Well, they’d been alone before, but now they’re sharing the same cramped space and breathing the same air. It smells like cigarettes and weed in Billy’s car, neither of which is masked by the pine-shaped air freshener that dangles from the rearview mirror, or the spicy scent of what Steve assumes is Billy’s aftershave clinging to the interior. It feels so surreal, like maybe this is some kind of implausible fever dream. Never in a million years did Steve think he’d be willingly interacting with Billy Hargrove again.

Steve also never thought he’d ever have to defend himself and a gaggle of children from extra-dimensional monsters, though, so.

“Is this necessary?” he asks, too uneasy to suffer another stretch of uncomfortable silence. At least Billy’s left the heat blasting; Steve takes the opportunity to pull his hands out of his pockets and warm them in front of one of the vents. “I just want to buy some weed, man.”

Billy looks at him like he's stupid, like maybe he’s about to change his mind and kick Steve out of the car. It also kind of looks like Billy wants to punch him. Steve's put himself in the perfect position for it, so he can’t help the way he flinches when Billy reaches across him to the glove compartment to fish out a disposable lighter.

"If you're not selling, then—"

"I am," Billy brusquely cuts him off as he lights his cigarette, takes a deep drag, and exhales a thick cloud of smoke and particulate. Steve jealously watches him, craving the buzz of nicotine — or _anything_ , really, that might keep his hands and thoughts occupied.

"I'm just trying to figure out—" Billy starts saying, pausing to tap his ashes out the driver-side window he has cracked open a half-inch while the thumb of his free hand drums out an idle, agitated beat against the steering wheel "—what kind of honest-to-god _dumbass_ walks up to someone's car and tries to buy pot like they're at the drive-through."

It’s the condescension in Billy’s tone that sets Steve off. He says it so derisively, with a nasty sneer in his voice that cuts through his otherwise impenetrable cool. He’s talking down to Steve, and whether it’s because Billy just thinks that highly of himself, or because he thinks so little of Steve, it’s infuriating.

Coming here was a bad idea.

"You know what?" Steve's already red-faced, having gone from zero to irritated in no time at all. Why did he think Billy was going to sell him anything? Of course he wouldn’t. This had all been just some clever ploy to humiliate Steve, and Steve had willingly, _foolishly,_ waltzed right into it.

"If you're not gonna sell to me, then fuck this," he snaps, already reaching for the door like he can maybe save some face if he dips out of here fast enough. The lock clicks down before he can, and for a moment Steve’s stuck yanking on the handle like an idiot.

He can feel Billy watching him as he struggles with the powerlock, but it isn’t until Steve wrenches it open and has one foot out the door that he finally pipes up again.

“How much you looking to buy, Harrington?”

Steve pauses. He considers, for a moment, telling Billy where he can stick his weed, because he's still running hot, tempered by the humiliation and anxiety that have both left him bristling. Billy looks cool as ever when Steve shoots a glance his way, and even that agitates him.

Then again, he's already come this far; to go home empty-handed at this point would be like rubbing salt in the wound. Steve might as well commit and get this over with if Billy's intention is just to fuck with him.

He mulls it over for a second, the warmth of Billy's car at his back, the frigid night air nipping at his front. Fuck Tommy, honestly. He knew he was Steve's only hook-up, that Steve's never actually bought weed before, that he doesn't actually know the first thing about how much to buy or what it costs because he's only ever bummed joints in exchange for cigarettes.

It's ultimately the cold that prompts Steve to drop back into the passenger seat and shut the car door behind him. He figures that if he’s going to continue having this conversation, he might as well be warm.

"I don't know," Steve says at length, digging a leather wallet out of his jacket pocket. "What would fifty bucks get me?"

Billy's brows hike up his forehead. For the first time since the start of their chat, Steve feels like he has Billy's undivided attention. He can't decide if that's better or worse; the full force of Billy's stare has him trying not to squirm and makes him think that he's said something wrong, or stupid, or both.

But he’s already committed with a fifty dollar bill fished out of his wallet and held between them like some sort of peace offering, or an olive branch extended in exchange for weed that Steve doesn’t really want so much as he feels like he needs to help soothe some of the nightmares.

Billy glances at the bill, then back up at him, mouth pursed in a thin, contemplative line. The seconds stretch between them before he seems to finally come to a decision and answers:

“Fifty’ll get you a quarter.”

‘ _A quarter of **what**?_’ Steve wants to ask, but thankfully he manages to bite his tongue before he can get the words out. He's pretty sure it's a stupid question.

It sounds like too much money for very little product, but what the hell does Steve know, anyway? Billy’s expression betrays nothing, and even if he is upcharging, there’s nothing Steve can really do about it. It’s either this or trying to hit Tommy up again, and that had worked out _so_ well the last time.

Steve chews on his bottom lip while he thinks about it, as if he doesn’t already know what his answer is going to be, and then finally thrusts the wrinkled fifty toward Billy.

“Yeah, fine. A quarter.”

He thinks he can see a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of Billy’s pink lips when he snatches the proffered bill. Steve imagines it’s amusement, probably at his expense. He wonders if maybe this is where Billy really does kick him out of the Camaro, out fifty bucks with nothing to show for it.

At least Billy doesn’t leave him wondering for long. He shoves the bill into the pocket of his leather jacket — which is about as appropriate for the winter weather as his unbuttoned shirt — and reaches between his thighs to grab at something beneath the driver’s seat. Steve watches as he sits back up with a crumpled paper bag. He’s only sort of surprised that, rather than pulling out a switchblade (or a middle finger), Billy’s grabbing little plastic dime bags one at a time. He stops when he’s counted seven, reaching over to unceremoniously drop the fistful of baggies onto Steve’s lap.

Which — alright, _yeah_ , this is going better than Steve figured it would, even if he’s having to scramble to collect the plastic wrapped buds before they can slip between the seat. He hadn’t been too optimistic about getting what he’d actually come here for, so the fact that he’s not going to be leaving empty-handed is something of a relief.

There’s just one small hitch.

“Is this really a quarter?” Steve asks, staring dubiously at his purchase; he’s counted twice, and there’s definitely seven dime bags, but he can’t reconcile the number in his head. Maybe he should have clarified what he’s getting a quarter of, after all. It certainly isn’t a quarter _pound_ , which may or may not have been where Steve’s mind had initially gone.

“It doesn’t look like a whole lot.”

"How much did you expect it to look like?" Billy says, the beginnings of an irritated scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Steve turns one of the bags over in his hand and counts them all again, inspecting the contents with a furrow creasing his brow. The little green chunks of dried-up leaves look nothing like what he'd seen Tommy pack into a spliff before. They're too big, for one, and Steve has a sinking feeling that there are steps between acquiring weed and actually smoking it that he is sorely uninformed of.

Billy seems to catch on to his bewilderment before Steve can try to play it cool or hastily take his leave, though. He heaves an exaggerated sigh of frustration, like he can’t believe he’s having to explain this.

"It's a quarter of an ounce, Harrington,” Billy tells him, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole damn world. “Seven grams, seven bags. Don't tell me you smoke enough to need _more_."

Billy’s tone of voice has Steve bristling again, and he almost snaps at him, almost tells Billy that it isn't his fucking business how much he does or doesn't smoke. Then again, this is the most he's gotten in terms of an explanation, and at least it helps clarify things. Somewhat.

Fifty bucks for a quarter of an ounce still seems like a rip-off, though.

"It’s _fine,"_ Steve says tersely, beginning to stuff the baggies into his coat pocket one by one. Maybe now that he actually has some weed, Tommy will do him a solid and explain the rest. Barring that, Steve could just go back to bumming cigarettes and whiskey from his dad's stash. It's not like either of his parents have realized yet, too busy with their respective jobs and _everything else_ to notice when their things go missing.

"Keep that shit in a mason jar and out of the sun." Billy’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and even if he sounds patronizing, he’s giving what seems like reasonable advice.

Steve jerks his head in a sharp nod, then makes the mistake of opening his mouth again.

"Uh, why?" he asks before he can stop himself. He isn’t sure why he’s bothering with the question, or why Billy still hasn’t told him to get out. Or, more importantly, why he hasn’t already left.

Steve has a feeling it’s because he’s kind of lonely, which has to be _the_ most pathetic excuse to keep this conversation going. Spending the night chatting about weed with Billy Hargrove isn’t Steve’s idea of a good time. Nor does it sound like the best way to distract from the fact that Nancy's fucking Jonathan, or that Steve’s parents are gone on some holiday business trip again, or that his only real friend isn’t even old enough to drive.

It’s almost a relief when Billy speaks up again, cutting through Steve’s troubled thoughts like a jackknife.

"’Cause it'll dry out and lose potency faster if you don’t.”

It’s weird that Billy is giving him answers. He must be bored, or he’s having a slow night, or _something,_ because when he’s done blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth and tapping ash out of the window, Billy actually takes the time to elaborate with more than just a snide remark. "And use a decent grinder. Don't just crush it with your fingers, or whatever the hell it is you do."

"Grinder. Right.” Steve hadn’t actually considered how he's going to crumble his weed up. In fact, he isn’t even sure he knows what a grinder _is._ It’s only because Billy has been unexpectedly helpful so far that Steve ventures to ask: "So... where do I get one of those?"

Billy shrugs his shoulders.

“From a head shop in Los Angeles.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s going to just leave it at that. It already sounds like Billy’s patience is thin enough to snap, or like Steve’s asked him something exceptionally stupid. Maybe he has. _Tommy_ never used a grinder.

Billy reaches past him and digs into the glove compartment to fish out a round metal tin, showing it off with a totally unnecessary flourish.

“You’re not gonna find any around here, dipshit,” Billy says with a derisive snort. “Small town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? I’m surprised you even know what weed is.”

Steve can feel his annoyance simmer, but he thinks he does a better job of hiding it, this time.

“What else do you think we do for fun around here?” He rolls his eyes; he’s never considered himself to be much of a country bumpkin, but Billy’s so aggressively _city boy_ it’s kind of ridiculous.

“Anyway, could I—” he gestures toward the silver grinder Billy’s still got in his hand. “I dunno, do you have one I could buy off you, or something?”

"Yeah, ‘cause I have a stash of these along with everything else." Billy has this infuriating way of making everything he says sound like an insult. Steve tenses at his tone, ready to snap something in response when Billy thrusts a hand out towards him.

"Give me one of those bags," he orders, palm open and waiting until Steve catches on and — though he isn’t really sure why — fishes a baggie out of his pocket to hand it over. "Do you even know how to use a grinder, Harrington? Ever rolled a joint before?"

 _‘No’_ is the obvious answer, but Steve doesn’t want to admit it outright.

“You gonna show me?” he asks instead, like he’s issuing a challenge. Maybe it isn’t wise to get all snarky with Billy now, but Steve is too annoyed to help himself. “Bet you Californians do it different.”

Like _better,_ maybe, at least according to Billy; Steve has overheard him countless times during and outside of practices, touting how inferior Hawkins is compared to his hometown back in the sunshine state. It’s gotten stale, honestly.

"Bet _you_ don't even know how to," Billy fires back in that mocking tone of his, but he doesn’t wait for Steve to protest or try to prove him wrong. Instead, he’s opening up the baggie and unscrewing the lid of his grinder to reveal an intersecting pattern of small, metal teeth in the lid and the main chamber. Steve watches with mild interest as Billy carefully pinches off little pieces of the nug, drops them in, sets the lid back on, then gives it a few perfunctory twists.

The whole exercise seems kind of tedious, especially since Steve still doesn't know if Billy has a spare grinder or if he's going to be willing to sell one to him. Clearly money is no object, but Steve wouldn't put it past Billy to be an asshole on principle.

Still, he watches as Billy checks the chamber and retwists the cap a couple more times before, seemingly satisfied, he unscrews a third chamber from the bottom, revealing a small dish full of ground up weed that is much more reminiscent of the stuff that Steve has seen Tommy use. It's way more pungent, though; the smell hits Steve like a ton of bricks, strong enough to make his nose wrinkle in surprise.

"Dunno what kind of shit you get out here," Billy says, apparently noticing Steve's reaction, "but it’s got nothing on Cali kush."

That’s entirely possible, Steve thinks; there’s got to be a reason why the hippies like California so much.

But he doesn’t want to give Billy the satisfaction of agreeing with him, and he isn’t exactly a weed connoisseur, so Steve keeps his mouth shut. He watches Billy quietly, taking mental notes of all the steps he’s taking to roll up a joint. He’s got a cardboard packet of tobacco rolling papers in his hand — those, at least, Steve recognizes — and he’s dumping half the contents of the grinder onto the crease. There’s nothing instructive about it; Billy is going so fast, like this is so easy he could do it in his sleep. With one hand, he’s rolling the paper with his thumb until it forms a tight cylinder, then he’s bringing it to his lips.

Steve isn’t sure why Billy chooses that moment to make eye contact. Or why there’s anything slightly uncomfortable about the way Billy’s tongue licks all the way along the adhesive edge of the paper. Maybe it’s _because_ Billy stares at Steve during, as if he’s challenging him to keep watching. It’s no less weird than all the other times Billy has stuck his stupid tongue out like he can’t keep it in his mouth while maintaing intense eye contact, but Steve still struggles to keep from squirming in his seat.

He manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes and look away, at least, and thankfully the moment ends as quickly as it began.

“There. See? That’s how it’s done,” Billy says, giving the open end of the joint a twist and holding it up demonstratively.

“Great.” Steve doesn’t sound impressed at all. He kind of is, because he doubts he’s going to be able to perfectly replicate with two hands what Billy so easily did with one, but he’s not about to stroke this douchebag’s ego.

With the lesson over, Steve reaches for the joint pinched between Billy’s fingers, only to swipe at thin air when it's pulled out of reach.

“What the hell? I paid for that!”

"Consider it idiot tax," Billy sneers. Before Steve can stretch across the console to snatch the joint back (or maybe punch him, he hasn't decided yet), Billy brings it to his mouth and clicks on a lighter, igniting the tip of the paper with a deep inhale.

Immediately, the potent smell of it permeates the cramped air between them. It's sweet and a little fruity — definitely nothing like the stench of tobacco mixed with skunk that Steve's used to.

Billy holds the smoke in his lungs, purses his lips, and exhales several perfectly-formed smoke rings directly at Steve's face. That’s kind of impressive, too, but Steve’s glower betrays nothing as he flaps his hand through the air in front of him to dissipate the last of the stale puffs of smoke. Billy is grinning at him in that self-satisfied way that never ceases to get on Steve’s nerves. Like Billy thinks he _won._

Steve realizes he should take this as his cue to leave, but it turns out he’s still got a wicked competitive streak, and Billy has an uncanny ability to get under his skin.

“Are you gonna at least let me sample the product?” he says, watching irately as the tip of the joint glows bright again. “I gotta make sure you aren’t selling me oregano.”

"Don’t think you'd be able to tell the difference," Billy drawls, but he still offers the blunt to Steve after taking another quick puff. Steve is surprised by that, and by the way Billy doesn’t hold it out of reach when he moves to take the joint from Billy’s outstretched hand. Without quite making eye contact, Steve presses the end between his lips and takes a long hit.

It isn’t until the smoke hits his lungs that Steve realizes, belatedly, that Billy wasn’t exaggerating: this shit is _strong._

It burns all the way down when he breathes it in, sitting heavy in his chest and leaving his throat feeling sore and scratchy. When Steve exhales, it's with a hacking cough he can't hold back, tears springing to his eyes as he beats a fist against his chest and tries to catch his breath.

His head is already starting to spin, not just from the lack of air. He can feel the buzz draping over him like a warm blanket, and he’s still coughing by the time he feels Billy take the joint away from him. Steve is pretty sure he’s high already; he’s rocking back and forth a little in the passenger seat as he finally manages to breathe normally again, and the world has gone hazy around the edges.

Billy laughs. It's sharp and mocking in a way that would make Steve's skin crawl with embarrassment and anger if he wasn't busy trying to clear the the burn in his throat. Billy takes the blunt back for another hit while Steve sniffs and blinks the tears from his eyes.

"Well, don't fucking _cry_ about it, pussy,” Billy scoffs through a cloud of smoke. Steve's head is swimming and his body feels loose and heavy, but he still manages to scowl at Billy, squinting past the moisture stinging the corners of his eyes. He furiously blinks it away, snatches back the joint from Billy’s loose fingers, then brings it back to his mouth. It’s stupid, because he was just coughing his lungs out, but Steve takes another drag like he’s got something to prove.

If the first hit had knocked him into the atmosphere, the second sends him out of orbit and hurtling to some distant planet — like, Pluto, or something. He feels so fucking high. Kind of too high, honestly. He probably shouldn’t have taken another toke so soon.

Overwhelmed, Steve curls in on himself, elbows braced against his knees, face buried in the crook of his elbow as he breaks down into another coughing fit. His head is spinning. He thinks he hears Billy say something — he’s probably making fun of him — and feels the joint disappear from between his fingers.

It’s either because Steve is stoned or because Billy has turned the volume up, but the quiet backdrop of music gets a little louder. Steve is grateful for it. He needs something to focus on as he tries to level out, chest rattling with an intermittent cough. It feels like he’s there for a while, hunched forward, swaying absently because he can’t stay still.

When he can breathe again, Steve subtly wipes his eyes dry and sits up, sinking back against his seat and listening to the leather creak. He dares to look over at Billy. Steve can’t tell if he’s just really fucking high, or if Billy’s eyes have always been that goddamn blue. The seconds stretch into infinity and neither of them break eye contact, caught in a staring contest that Steve thinks he’s won when Billy finally looks away, peering out the windshield and out over the lake.

They sit like that for a while, without any exchange of words — it’s not like they have anything to actually talk about. That’s fine by Steve, because now that he isn’t hacking he feels kind of good, content to just exist in the moment.

Steve slowly sinks into the music playing through Billy's car radio. It crests over him like a wave and pulls him down deep like an undertow. With his head light and the air thick and soupy, every swell of sound, every crooning vocal, sends pleasant vibrations ringing from the crown of his head to the rest of his body. He’s not usually into rock music — Steve prefers something with a beat, something he can dance to — but he thinks he could listen to anything right now and it would sound amazing

He zones out for some indefinable stretch of time; Steve can’t tell where one song starts and another ends, they all flow into one another as one delirious stretch of thunderous treble and screeching guitar solos. The mix tape — or the radio, Steve isn’t actually sure what Billy's playing — has cut to something slower by the time he tunes in again. He thinks he recognizes the song, or maybe he’s just vibing with the sentiment behind those melancholy vocals.

When the chorus hits, Steve is immediately transported back to last spring’s senior dance. He had taken Nancy, because they were still together at that point. She had done her hair up the same way he’d seen it earlier tonight, all curled and fluffed with hairspray. He remembers vividly just how pretty she looked, staring up at him with a coy smile as they slow-danced to this very same song.

Steve recognizes it, now — _I Want To Know What Love Is_ by Foreigner — and he doesn’t fail to see the irony.

It’s probably just because he’s stoned, but Steve can’t help but crack up. His laugh sounds a little manic, a little out of it, which is really only fitting: Steve _feels_ out of it. He can't shake the feeling that he’s stepped into an alternate reality, or some sort of diverging timeline, and it all started when he first sat down in the passenger seat of Billy Hargrove’s car looking to buy some weed.

If anything, the sense of unreality has grown since then, either spurred by Steve’s stoned mind or by the non-hostile silence that has settled over the two of them.

Billy had kicked the ever-loving shit out of him not two months ago, yet here Steve is, getting high off his ass with him and listening to rock power ballads while he reminisces about Nancy Wheeler.

If there’s a punchline to this joke, Steve doesn’t get it. But that doesn’t stop him from laughing.

Steve’s laugh is apparently contagious, because it isn’t long before Billy’s grinning, then snorting out something that sounds half-amused, half-mad, like he can also find the humor in hotboxing a car with a guy whose face he’d all but broken not so long ago.

“You’re a fucking lightweight, Harrington,” he accuses, like that even matters. Steve is helpless to do anything but laugh again, throwing his head back against the cushion and giggling until he can’t breathe, until every inhale is a struggle and he has to clutch his stomach just to keep himself from coming apart at the seams. He can’t remember the last time he felt this giddy. He hasn’t had a reason to be in a long time — not since his life got thrown on its head two years prior and certainly not since Nancy dumped him.

But right now he can’t stop laughing, tears nearly streaming down his cheeks, with Billy Hargrove to his left and the cab of the Camaro thick with smoke. It stings his eyes a little and makes him fight back another cough. When Steve holds his hand out for the rest of the joint, Billy doesn’t even needle him about it. Maybe he thinks Steve’s reaction to the weed is funny enough on its own without teasing him. Maybe stoned Billy is slightly less of a bastard.

Whatever his reasons, Billy passes the joint over and Steve takes it and sucks in another deep drag. It’s probably a mistake — he’s starting to feel a little untethered, like he might just float out of his body and out of the car and out of Hawkins completely — but it wouldn’t be polite to leave the joint unfinished and _anyway,_ he doesn’t want Billy to think he can’t handle his buzz.

Not that it really matters what Billy thinks.

When Steve takes a puff and passes it back, Billy finishes the rest and rolls down the window to toss the butt out. Then he’s sprawling over his seat with his legs spread on either side of the steering wheel and his head tipped back. He looks loose and relaxed in a way Steve has never seen before. It’s weird. And kind of a nice change.

“'S good shit,” Billy says after another long stretch of comfortable silence, like that hasn't already been made abundantly clear by the way Steve is smiling dopily at nothing whatsoever.

Steve bobs his head in silent agreement; it’s hard to argue with how good it is when he feels like he’s a thousand miles away, detached from every problem and every fear he’s ever had. The music washes over him, the smoke makes funny shapes in front of his eyes, and Billy looks the calmest Steve’s ever seen when he peeks over to check on him.

It’s almost amicable between them. As much as it can be, anyway, for two people who aren’t friends and don’t even like each other.

Weed’s one hell of a drug, Steve thinks, letting out another drowsy giggle.

“Is this why everyone in California always looks so happy?” Steve asks, too comfortable to put a filter on the words that leave his lips. He’d been content with the silence, but once he starts talking he has a hard time reigning it back in. “You all just get high on the beach every day?”

Steve wishes that’s where he was right now: somewhere warm and sunny. It doesn’t have to be California, but the morning frost has got him jonesing for the summer heat and some sand between his toes.

He wonders if he’d tan half as well as Billy does. Wonders, for that matter, how Billy has managed to stay tan in cool and overcast Indiana.

Billy takes his time to answer, like he’s actually thinking about the question. When the silence stretches for too long, Steve thinks he might not answer at all.

“They’re happy knowing they aren't in this backwoods shit hole,” is what Billy settles on. Steve gets the impression that it’s not what Billy actually wants to say.

That doesn’t stop his hackles from raising, even though he’d be the first to admit he doesn’t care much for Hawkins. Not before — when he’d been young and restless and easily bored by the minutiae of a small town — and definitely not _now_. Not with literal monsters around every corner, and not with constant reminders that the only girl he’d ever loved didn’t love him anymore plaguing him everywhere he goes.

“Then why don’t you go back, if you miss it so damn much?” Steve scoffs. He wonders — not for the first time that night — if Billy’s gonna punch him for it.

He looks ready to, at any rate, even if all he’s doing is sneering over at Steve.

“I’m _gonna,_ dipshit.”

And that’s that, really. Billy doesn’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t ask him how he plans to. Maybe he’ll just drive back to the west coast one of these days. Tear out in his Camaro and off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

Steve isn’t sure why the thought sits a little weird in his gut.

Actually, come to think of it, that might just be because his stomach’s growling.

Steve’s abruptly aware of the fact that he’s starving. He’s a little thirsty, too — his mouth feels all pasty, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’s not sure why it’s the first thing that pops into his head, but Steve could really go for chicken nuggets.

Well, _shit_. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t seem to stop.

“It’s not all bad here,” he says; he’s not sure why he does. It feels like his stomach has taken control of his tongue. “At least we’ve got a twenty-four seven McDonald’s.”

Steve peers past Billy through the driver's side window, blinking a few times to clear his vision, only to realize the haze is either in the air or a part of the high. The latter would be really fucking inconvenient, because Steve is suddenly determined to haul himself back to his car and drive himself to the nearest drive-through.

“I’m gonna go get McNuggets," Steve announces to the smoky air of this strange, liminal space he's slipped into. He's not really talking to Billy, he just needs to voice the intention aloud in case that makes it easier to unstick himself from the passenger seat.

 _"McNuggets,"_ Billy echoes. It sounds like he might not be entirely opposed to the idea, himself.

He seems to mull over it a little longer while Steve musters up the willpower to roll himself out of the car. His limbs feel heavy — everything is leaden, from his arms to his chest — and the very thought of getting out of Billy's car, walking to his own, driving to McDonald's, _ordering_ his food— God, it's too much.

He lets out a frustrated huff and looks over at Billy. It's not his preferred option, but if his body doesn't want to cooperate and his damn car is _so far away,_ then maybe he can convince Billy to take him there.

"Buy you something if you drive?" he offers, because there's nothing else he can think of that might entice Billy enough to take him up on the offer.

Surprisingly, Billy doesn't take long to respond.

"Yeah," he says. Steve tries to keep down a triumphant grin, because he really doesn’t want Billy to change his mind. "Fine. You're paying for everything, though."

“Deal.”

And that’s how Steve ends up driving to the McDonald’s down on Main, riding shotgun in Billy Hargrove’s Camaro, with _The Eagles_ blaring over the radio and a cloud of pot smoke keeping the windows fogged.

He’s not sure if he’s dreamt tonight up or not, but, honestly?

It beats the nightmares.

*

“Yeah, uh,” Billy drawls into the crackling microphone of the drive-through, window rolled down and half his chest hanging out of it so the lone, bored-sounding teenager on the other end can hear him better.

“I think I’ll have—” he glances at the menu, effectively blocking Steve’s view of it while he squints at the items on offer and pretends like he doesn't know exactly what he's going to get.

“—yeah, I’ll have two Big Macs, a quarter pounder with cheese, a large fry, two chocolate chip cookies, and, uh, a strawberry milkshake,” is what he finally settles on. Billy slides back into the Camaro, looking totally pleased with himself, and when the speaker crackles again with an “ _Anything else?”,_ he turns to Steve.

“What do you want?”

Steve gapes at him for a few seconds. He’s high, sure. They _both_ still are. But Billy just ordered enough food to feed three people, and Steve’s, like, _pretty sure_ that Billy can’t look the way he looks if he eats that much. So either he’s got a legendary case of the munchies, or Billy is taking full advantage of the fact that this is all on Steve’s dime.

Steve is pretty sure it’s the latter. Even stoned, Billy is still a dick _._

But he’s got four more twenties in his wallet, so, _whatever_.

“I’ll get the twenty piece McNuggets with honey,” Steve says at length, deciding it’s better if he just pretends to be unfazed. He leans forward, trying to peer across Billy at the menu, only to give up when he can’t make out much. He mostly just wants chicken, anyway. “And a diet Coke.”

Billy scoffs immediately, shooting a Steve a side-long sneer. " _Diet?_ Really? Think that's gonna do much for your figure after that twenty piece?"

Steve wants to point out how hypocritical that is, considering how much Billy just ordered, but Billy is already leaning back out the window and putting in his order, laying it on thick and condescending when he asks for a " _diet Coke”._

Steve rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut, listening to the speaker crackle again. The voice on the other end is tinny and grating.

"Your total's eleven-ten," it says. "First window, whenever you're ready."

Billy slips back into the car and rolls the window up, either to try and keep whatever lingers of the smell of weed inside or to pretend like it's not his car that's been hot-boxed, then rolls through to the window and holds out his hand for Steve to pass the cash.

Steve fishes a bill out of his pocket and slaps down a twenty into his waiting palm. He ignores the cocked eyebrow and the serious side-eye this earns him, like somehow Billy’s trying to mock him for having money, or something.

It’s just as likely that he’s devising another way to rip Steve off.

Steve’s too stoned and hungry to care, though, and Billy actually hands him back his change after he’s rolled up to the window to collect three paper bags’ worth of food and two drinks. Billy passes them over one by one. It looks even more excessive than he imagined now that Steve can see it all first-hand, which would have annoyed Steve more if the smell wasn’t so appetizing.

He hardly waits for Billy to exit the drive-through lane before he’s rummaging through one of the bags for his order, not even bothering to take out the box or find the sauce as he shoves a chicken nugget into his mouth like a starving man. Technically, he did skip dinner to help Dustin get ready for the Snow Ball. And he definitely has the munchies.

It doesn’t really excuse the way Steve groans a little when he swallows.

Billy rolls into a parking spot in the meantime, idling under a busted streetlamp while he snatches a bag at random and roots around for some fries.

"Damn," Billy says as he crams a handful into his mouth, licking salt and grease off each finger and glancing side-long at Steve still rapturously chewing on his nugget. “They ain't _that_ good, Harrington."

Still, he peers at Steve with an inscrutable expression as he drops the bag back onto Steve's lap. Billy scrubs the last of the grease off his fingers and onto his jeans before throwing the car into gear.

They continue on in silence for a while, driving back to Lover's Lake and the quiet, unobtrusive stillness there. The beach is as empty as they had left it when they return; the chill of the air or some sort of town-wide malaise seems to be keeping people away, which means they still have their spot under a willow tree that overlooks the oncoming road. Billy parks, and once he's killed the headlights, he snags a bag off Steve's lap again, rooting around for a straw for his shake and one of the burgers he'd ordered.

By now, Steve's already three-quarters of the way finished with his McNuggets. As he watches Billy dig in to the first of his three meals, he wonders if maybe he had the right idea when he ordered all that extra food.

He does still have two bags of warm food on his lap, though. And he _did_ pay for it.

Steve’s also still stoned off his ass, so the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies is simply too tempting to ignore. He sticks his hand into the bag, grabs the wax paper pouch, and takes one of them for himself before Billy can tell him off for it.

He bought _two_ , so, fair game.

“You’re not seriously gonna eat all this shit, are you?” Steve asks him, not even being intentionally cheeky about it when he takes a huge bite of cookie while he’s waiting for Billy’s answer. Turns out Californian weed makes him unbelievably hungry.

Billy jerks his head up when he hears the rustle of another bag, straw between his teeth and one burger unwrapped in his free hand.

“What the _fuck_ , Harrington? That was _mine_.” He doesn’t seem to care that Steve paid for it, or that he’s already eaten half; before Steve can react, Billy snatches the cookie clean out of Steve’s hand so that he can cram the rest of it into his mouth without a thought to the crumbs that spill down into his open shirt and litter his fingers.

Steve blinks; the weed’s made him a little slow, and he’s a little _too_ relaxed to feel all that pissed off about it. Still, for a moment he seriously considers taking a bite out of one of Billy’s burgers just to spite him. It’s only because he doesn’t want to get kicked out of his car just yet that he settles instead for reaching for his diet Coke.

“Geez, _touchy_ ,” he mutters, watching Billy as he sucks chocolate off his bottom lip and then reaches for his milkshake. It’s an impressive looking thing, all candy pink and topped with a disgusting amount of whipped cream. Billy drags his finger through the mess, licking it off his first knuckle before sticking his straw into the drink and proceeding to take a sip. He hums, apparently pleased by the taste, and leans back in his seat to continue devouring his burger.

“You never answered my question,” Steve says as he watches. He’s not sure _why_ he watches, but Billy’s making a spectacle of himself with the way he downs that milkshake, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone eat food the way Billy does. The way his eyelashes flutter shut when he takes a mouthful of burger, the way his jaw works it when he chews, the pleased sounds Billy’s making — it’s _weird_ , and kind of disturbing.

But also sort of fascinating.

“There’s no way you can actually eat all of this.” It’s not worded like a question, this time, more like an accusation, despite that Billy’s done an impressive job eating half of his first burger already.

“Says _who_?” Billy asks in response and takes another bite, watching — along with Steve — as a bit of lettuce as it tumbles from his bitten burger and into his lap. He chews and swallows it back with more milkshake, picking up the offending bit of green from where it’s landed on his thigh before, after a beat of contemplative silence, flicking it directly at Steve. “I’ll eat as much of it as I damn want to.”

The lettuce lands on Steve’s jacket; he can’t bring himself to find it annoying, it’s just so ridiculous and he’s just so buzzed that all he manages is a huff of bemused laughter.

“Never said I’d stop you, man,” Steve tells him as he stuffs another McNugget in his mouth, sounding like he’s trying to reassure Billy. He kind of is, if only because Steve has zero interest in harshing tonight’s mellow. Even if he’s sharing that mellow with Billy Hargrove. Actually — _especially_ because that’s who he’s here with.

He wishes it was someone else — someone less prickly and mean, preferably. Sure, his and Billy’s back-and-forth is kind of amusing, or at least not altogether terrible. Steve can thank the weed for that.

“But, y’know, if you need help finishing anything, I’ll gladly take that milkshake off your hands.” He throws Billy a sideways glance, licking the salt off his lips. “Strawberry’s my favorite, so...”

Billy eyes him, straw between his lips and the hollow of his cheeks obscene as he sucks down a few mouthfuls like he's trying to finish the whole thing out of spite. There's the rattling sound of the straw sucking up air before Billy finally pulls off, a bit of the shake dribbling down his bottom lip. He catches it with the tip of his tongue, and Steve can’t help but notice that it's dyed pink from his drink.

“Good to know,” Billy drawls, swirling the cup around in his hand; there’s still some shake left, probably a third of it judging by the sloshing sound. When he takes a final sip and drops the cup in the holder between them, Steve can’t help but think it’s meant to be an invitation.

He isn’t sure how to feel about that, but far be it for him to pass up the opportunity. He sets his Diet Coke in the other holder and reaches for the shake, half-scared that Billy’s gonna tell him that he’d spat in it as he brings the straw in his mouth. That’s stupid, obviously, since he’s been watching Billy this entire time, but Steve still hesitates a second before he drinks.

The milkshake is sweet as hell, and gives him a mild case of brain freeze when he sucks it back too fast. Steve likes it, though. He kind of wishes he’d ordered one for himself.

They’ve lapsed into another bout of silence. Steve tries not to make it obvious that he’s watching Billy eat while he chews contemplatively on his plastic straw. It’s morbidly fascinating, though, seeing Billy start into his second burger like he’s ravenous for it. And, coupled with all the _sounds_ he’s making, like there’s something inherently intimate about stuffing one’s face with burger buns — _yeah_ , it’s mildly uncomfortable to witness, but Steve can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“I, uh, didn’t think you’d be much of a fast food kind of guy,” he says, if only to fill the quiet with something other than the sounds of Billy eating.

Billy shrugs and has enough decency not to talk with his mouth full, waiting until he's swallowed and thumbed a streak of ketchup from the corner of his mouth before he says anything.

"What's not to like about all-American beef?" he asks, shooting Steve a wide, toothy grin like he's just told a funny joke. There's just a little bit of burger left, a couple of bites that Billy stuffs into his mouth while wadding up the paper with his free hand.

"And anyway—" He sucks his teeth, chasing the burger with a thoughtless sip of Steve's diet Coke stolen right from his hands. “— _everything_ tastes better when you're high."

Steve can’t even pretend to be annoyed about his drink, not when Billy shoves it back at him a moment later.

“Good point,” he admits, and he has to confess that he’s a _little_ bit impressed at how much food Billy is able to put away in such a short timeframe. Especially when he does it with such gusto. “Well, I mean, I could think of a few things that wouldn’t. But cheap fast food isn’t one of them.”

"Yeah?" Billy turns to the rest of his fries, rooting around for a couple of ketchup packets in the meantime. He tears into one with his teeth, squirts a generous dollop onto the four fries he's got pinched between his fingers, then shoves the whole mess in his mouth. It's kind of disgusting, but Steve keeps watching while he contemplates the last burger in the bag and wonders if he can get away with eating it before Billy notices.

"Like what, pretty boy?" Billy's voice cuts through his idle thoughts, dragging him back to reality where Billy's tipping the fry box into his mouth to catch the last of the crumbs, which he proceeds to chase with another stolen gulp of Steve’s Coke.

"I don't think even the munchies could make my mom's cooking edible," Steve says with a snort, throwing another considering glance at Billy's unattended bag of food, where he knows that last burger is tucked away. It’s probably still warm, too.

Distracted and stoned as he is, it takes Steve a moment to register everything Billy just said. One word in particular belatedly jumps out at him, and both of Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just call me _pretty_?"

Billy snorts, leaning back against his seat now that he's apparently satisfied with the amount of food he's eaten.

"Pretty _stupid_ ," he drawls in that infuriating way of his, shooting Steve a sharp grin that doesn't make it any less obvious that he's deflecting.

And it’s stupid — all of this is _stupid_. Billy’s stupid. And Steve’s so stupidly high that all he can do is giggle about it.

“That’s the most middle school thing you’ve ever said,” Steve says when finally manages to stop laughing, and since Billy’s being an immature jerk, Steve figures that third burger is fair game. He sticks his hand into the last of the paper bags, stealthily feeling around until he finds the wax paper wrapping, slowly working it open while he talks.

“Also, like, didn’t you get a D on that English paper last week?”

"Didn't _you_ get an F?" Billy shoots back, gaze flicking down to where Steve continues to unsubtly root around in the bag. He doesn't comment on it for whatever reason, but does take Steve's diet Coke back, slurping until the cup is empty save for the rattle of ice. He drops the cup back in the holder, then, and cranks the music up, signaling the end of the conversation as the crooning vocals of _Goodbye to Romance_ carry through the cabin.

It's a strange but ultimately anticlimactic end to a night that's been both bizarre and incredibly, surprisingly _un_ eventful. Because nothing happened, not really, and nothing about his circumstances have changed.

Nothing besides his newly-acquired quarter of weed, anyway.

Yet, when Steve stares out across Lover’s Lake while he helps himself to a burger, his mind doesn’t wander. Not to Nancy. Not to the nightmares, both real and imagined. Not to _anywhere,_ really.

For the first time in a long time, Steve feels himself relax.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day after Valentine's.   
> Steve comes back for more.

**February 15th, 1985**

It’s bullshit, absolute _bullshit_ — how was Billy supposed to keep track of some pointless Hallmark holiday, much less think to buy a girl he’s only been seeing for the sex a box of chocolates?

He’d shown up at Stacy Johnson’s empty-handed save for a roll of condoms. She’d had the nerve to slam the door in his face, like he was some kind of _dog_ for assuming she’d be down for a fuck. As if she hadn’t sucked his dick in the front seat of his Camaro just this past weekend.

It’s no skin off Billy’s back, but as he puffs through his third cigarette of the evening and washes down the taste with some shitty half-priced chocolate he’d just bought himself (purely out of spite), he thinks he doesn’t want to spend his Friday night like this: alone, selling weed by the lake.

So, it’s kind of perfect timing when Steve Harrington’s BMW pulls up beside him on the beach. Billy smokes and watches from the corner of his eye as Steve shuts off the engine, shuffles around to the passenger side, opens the door, and slips into the seat at Billy’s right without an invitation.

_Good_. He’s catching on.

Maybe he isn't as stupid as Billy likes to accuse him of being. Or maybe Billy's just lonely enough to overlook Harrington's usual bullshit.

He snuffs out his cigarette with a slow exhale and tosses the butt out the window, rolling it back up because it's nearing March but it's still _so_ damn cold, and Billy hasn't gone out of his way to buy a decent coat. He doesn’t see the point; this is gonna be his last winter in Indiana. He’ll be turning eighteen in the summer, and the second he does, he’s going to finally leave this frozen shit-hole.

"Done with what you got last time?" he asks with a smirk, already reaching down between his legs to fish out a paper bag from under the seat. "Or is this a social visit?”

He sees Steve roll his eyes and dig into the pocket of his coat — which looks a good deal warmer than the denim one Billy’s wearing, but also a good deal less stylish, so, whatever.

“I want another quarter,” Steve tells him, holding up two folded twenties and a ten. “Same as last time?”

God, fifty dollars, _just like that_. Maybe tonight isn't a complete wash, Billy thinks. He snags the money from Steve's outstretched hand, thumbing at the corner of a twenty while he gives it a once-over and then shrugs.

"Same as last time."

If only he'd known last time that Harrington would be so fucking _easy_. He could've probably gotten away with charging him double.

Oh, well.

Billy fishes seven little baggies out, counting them carefully. Once they're in hand, he dumps them onto Steve's lap with little fanfare.

"Find a grinder yet, Harrington? Or do you need me to do that for you again?" Billy says, watching with a smirk as Steve shoves each bag, one at a time, into the pockets of his oversized and overstuffed coat. Steve halts, on bag seven, and then abruptly holds it out to Billy.

“No.” He looks reluctant to admit it, even as he holds out the baggie of weed like he had the first time they met under these exact circumstances. “I don’t have one. Would you—?”

His eye-roll is perfectly practiced. It’s also, apparently, infuriating, if the way Steve’s jaw clenches is anything to go by. Billy grins wide in response and takes the baggie before Harrington can change his mind.

Then, just like before, he goes through the motions: unscrew grinder, pinch off pieces of the nug, twist the top, check for fineness.

He does this a couple of times until he has enough to roll a joint, then pulls a carton of papers from his jacket pocket. Another _idiot tax,_ he thinks with a smirk but doesn't say it aloud, because he can already see Steve bristling and for once he kind of wants the company enough to keep his mouth shut.

Billy rolls with one hand, watching Steve intently to make sure he's paying attention while he seals it shut and twists the ends, then offers him the finished joint.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise that Steve’s already armed with a Zippo, pointedly stolen from Billy’s cup holder.

“Guess you’re gonna wanna split this with me, huh?” Steve asks; he doesn’t sound like he minds, exactly, as though he’d come here already expecting it. He swipes the joint from Billy’s outstretched hand, pinches it between his teeth, and cups his palm to the end to light it.

After a deep inhale, Steve shakes out the flame and offers it and the lighter back to Billy before he even gets a chance to answer.

Billy takes it, one brow hiked up his forehead. “Guess so.”

He thinks it’s less fun like this, that maybe he should’ve said something, just to see if it’d throw Steve off-guard and give him the upper hand again. Because now they’re _sharing,_ Billy taking a long hit off the joint before he passes it back across the center console. It feels so damn weird.

He feels off his game, and there’s really only one way to fix that.

“Surprised to find you out here tonight,” he says, puffing smoke from the corner of his mouth and in Steve’s general direction. “Thought you’d be out getting it from some girl. Or have you lost your touch, pretty boy?”

Steve just snorts and rolls his eyes. His lack of annoyance annoys Billy. What he _says_ incenses Billy further.

"Oh, what, like how _you_ are, right now?" Steve's voice is flat in that way it gets when he's trying to come off as dismissive, and he has to know how much that gets under Billy's skin.

He has the nerve to reach forward, then, not for the joint, but for one of the chocolates left in the open box by Billy's gear shift. Billy doesn’t get a chance to stop him; Steve’s already popped one into his mouth, talking while he chews.

"'Cause it _kinda_ looks to me like you're eating chocolate alone in your car."

Billy can’t cover his sneer fast enough, face twisting into something ugly, something that usually precedes a punch. But he tells himself he doesn’t wanna clean Harrington’s blood off the dash and anyway: Steve’s paying him fifty fucking dollars for a quarter. That’s worth more than the satisfaction of beating the guy up.

He takes another hit, sucking on the paper until it flares bright orange and burns up nearly half, then blows it smoothly in Steve’s face, leaning his elbow on the center console so he can flash his teeth in an intimidating leer.

“Lots of lonely losers out here willing to pay big money for a high tonight. It’s called _business,_ pretty boy.”

Steve stares right back at him, still chewing his chocolate, still looking so infuriatingly unconcerned that Billy thinks maybe he should reconsider his stance on getting blood in his car. Because he fucking hates that look Steve gets about him, sometimes — all cool and dismissive, like he’s trying to decide if Billy’s worth his time and energy.

Steve doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches for another chocolate, popping it pointedly into his mouth like he’s making Billy wait for his answer.

He’s biting into the truffle contemplatively when he says, with no absence of snark:

“You really think I’m pretty?”

Billy bristles, rethinking the merits of wiping that smug look off Harrington's face with a well-placed punch. It would serve him right for looking so unperturbed, for being so damn relaxed when all Billy wants to do is get under his skin and break that cool facade. He wants to make Steve _pay_ for even suggesting that Billy couldn't get it, if he wanted to.

If that stupid bitch Stacy wasn't so hung up on flowers and chocolates, he _would_ be getting it, and pretty damn good, too. Stacy Johnson wasn't the worst fuck in the entire town, even if she was probably the loosest.

Billy takes another hit and mulls over the question for a minute, looking out the window before he turns back to Steve with a saccharine-smile and a wicked flash of teeth.

"What are you, a fucking _queer?"_

Steve’s expression crumples into a grimace, eyes narrowed and brow heavy as he swallows the second chocolate. He’s pissed off, Billy can tell; he’s got this fiery look in his eyes, like he’s simmering on something mean or outright violent, and Billy can work with that. It’s easier than dealing with cool, cocky Harrington, anyway. No matter how fucking _cool_ he acts, Billy knows he can still get under Steve’s skin.

Case in point.

_“No,_ what the fuck?” Steve snaps, swiping the joint from between Billy’s lips before he can finish puffing at it. “You’re the one who keeps saying it.”

"You know what sarcasm is, dipshit?" Billy snaps back, irritation jumping at Steve's brazen display. He tongues at his bottom lip for the taste that lingers there, brow furrowed and expression pinched, then snags the joint back as quickly as it was taken from him.

It's a little crushed, but whatever. Billy sucks on the end and then, before Steve can do anything, tosses the rest out the window, rolling it back up quickly before the damn cold can get to them.

"This is all bullshit, anyway," he mutters once he's enacted his petty revenge. Not that a couple of bucks worth of weed is anything to Harrington, but the annoyance flashing across his face is enough to satisfy Billy in the moment, and that's all that matters.

"I wouldn't be here right now if the chicks in Hawkins weren't such uptight bitches."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Let me guess," he says, voice flat. Billy hates that tone; he hates when King Steve goes all icy on him. Billy prefers his fire. He prefers to see Steve spitting for a fight than closed off and disinterested, like Billy's nothing more than the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "You bought a girl some chocolates and figured that'd be your free pass to sleep with her.”

"No," Billy snorts, a plume of smoke puffing from his nostrils. "Didn't bring her anything but condoms."

Steve glances, pointedly, at the open box of chocolates on the center console.

“Wow,” he intones. “You’re a regular prince charming.”

And then Steve reaches over and takes another chocolate, stuffing it into his mouth like he did with the first two.

"She's never bitched about it before," Billy counters, bristling. It's not at the suggestion that he's _not_ a prince charming — he's never fucking claimed to be, and with the way he gets around, one would think the girls in Hawkins would realize that soon enough. Rather, it’s the way Steve says it, all nonchalant while he steals candies and licks chocolate from his thumb.

"Doesn't fucking matter, anyway,” Billy says. “If she's not calling me up next week, someone else will be."

Steve regards him mildly, brow only slightly furrowed — like he’s annoyed, but not _that_ annoyed. Maybe he’s just high enough that he can’t stay angry. Or maybe he’s just distracted by the chocolate.

Still, he hasn’t stopped staring across at Billy.

“Uh-huh,” Steve mutters, stealing another truffle and popping it past his lips. He's got to be high already with how many he’s shoveling down his throat. “You ever consider just, like, _not_ being an asshole? You might actually get laid more.”

"Yeah? And how well has that worked out for _you,_ huh?" King Steve sure talks a lot of shit for a kid that toppled off his throne pretty much the minute Billy rolled into Hawkins. He'd set his sights on Harrington as soon as he'd found out who was top dog, and now that he really takes a moment to think about it, he can't believe how fucking _easy_ it'd been — or how fucking _low_ the standards in Hawkins are.

Billy stares right back, eyes narrowed while Steve bites into a bonbon. It's filled with some kind of over-sugared cream, white and sticky and kind of stringy. It pulls, then snaps, and there's a bit clinging to Steve's bottom lip by the time Billy realizes neither of them have said anything for a long minute.

Before he can get called out for staring, Billy breaks eye contact. He digs around in his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, sucking on his teeth while he does. Then, just to see what kind of reaction he'll get — because he doesn't fucking _care,_ really, just wants to see Steve squirm — Billy glances over and asks:

"When's the last time _you_ got laid?"

Steve tenses up; his jaw is wound tightly and his brow is heavily furrowed, and he has his bottom lip jutting out in such a way that it might have looked like he was pouting if he wasn’t throwing Billy a glare.

_Finally,_ some of that quality Harrington fire.

“None of your business,” Steve tells him. Rather than reaching for another chocolate, he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and pops it between his lips.

Steve throws him a pointed look, then.

“You got a light?”

"Yeah, I got a light." Billy answers immediately. He taps a cigarette out of the carton and grabs the lighter he’d used to spark the joint, holding it out between his two fingers. He's smiling — one of those nasty-looking things that means he's not gonna just pass the lighter over to Steve without a little something in return — and snaps it out of reach just before Steve can grab it from him.

He lights his own cigarette, instead, blowing a thick plume of smoke in Steve's face before finally holding the Zippo out again, grip still too tight to be inviting.

"Tell me when’s the last time you got laid, and I'll give you the light."

Steve’s expression looks pinched. He glowers at Billy as the cloud of smoke drifts past his face, nostrils flaring and his unlit cigarette hanging limply from the corner of his mouth.

A few beats of silence pass, during which Billy takes another couple drags and stares Steve down like they’re having some kind of silent standoff.

Then:

“Not since Nancy,” Steve mutters, oozing reluctance, like it’s some sort of big confession he hadn’t wanted to share.

The answer is so fucking pathetic that Billy can't help but laugh, tossing his head back and loosing a sharp, barking noise that's just shy of sounding manic.

"Since _Wheeler?"_

Good God, she isn't even _that_ hot. And it'd been ages since she started shacking up with Byers, anyway. Billy doesn't doubt Nancy's ability or willingness to sleep around — if she takes after her mom — but seeing Harrington's face crumple makes him think that he hasn't been getting any on the side.

It's _really_ fucking pathetic.

_"Well,"_ Billy scoffs and puffs on his cigarette for a long moment before he stretches toward Steve, lighter held out and pointedly clicked on. Steve gets the message and leans in to meet Billy halfway, catching the tip of his cigarette in the offered flame. He breathes in deep, that sad-pup expression melting away to relief.

And there’s something about the way Steve’s eyes flutter closed, about the way he sighs and slumps back into his seat with a shaky exhalation of smoke, that catches Billy’s attention and holds it there. He can’t help but stare at Steve in profile as he finishes his thought.

"If you're looking to get some, apparently all you need to do is bring them chocolate and they'll crawl all over you."

Steve makes a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, but he’s not smiling, and he’s still taking long drag and staring out the window like his mind is somewhere else.

“Yeah? How’s that been working out for you?”

“Oh, like a goddamn _dream,”_ Billy drawls, holding the cigarette between two fingers while he busies himself with digging through the box of chocolates with his free hand. He’s still watching Steve while he plucks one at random, still staring him down like he can will Steve to look at him again while he bites into the caramel center and chews.

“All I gotta do is bring Stacy Johnson some flowers tomorrow and she’ll be right back on my dick,” he explains with a shrug like it’s that easy. And it _is,_ honestly. There’s no counting how many times she’s gotten pissed at him only to come crawling back days — sometimes even _hours_ — later. Bitches in Hawkins are almost too easy. It's starting to get boring.

Billy pops the rest of the candy in his mouth with a grin, licking chocolate off his thumb until Steve glances at him like he’s going to say something. Billy doesn’t give him the chance.

“She’s got the tightest little cunt, you know. So fucking wet, too, you’d think no one but me knows what the hell they’re doing in this town.”

Steve’s whole expression twists — first with vexation, then with someone else Billy can’t put his finger on. Whatever it is, there’s an edge of discomfort to it. Not _enough,_ Billy thinks, but just seeing Steve squirm in the passenger seat feels like a victory, however small.

And however _brief,_ because no sooner than Billy smirks to himself and takes another puff of his cigarette, Steve speaks up.

“Stacy Johnson’s _always_ wet, man,” he mutters, looking a little guarded as he leans away from Billy and presses himself against the passenger door under the guise of tapping ash out the window. “Don’t think that makes you special. One time she got off just grinding on me. Fully clothed and everything.”

Billy likes a challenge. It’s why he gets so bored with all the cows in Hawkins, why he can’t be bothered to learn half of their names, much less remember to bring them candy and flowers on the day after Valentine’s. It’s why he strings them along until they’re simpering at his feet, and then tosses them away like bad leftovers.

It’s why he's absolutely _thriving_ on this impromptu showdown with Harrington.

Sure, Steve’s uncomfortable, but he hasn’t folded yet. He hasn’t so much as cracked, and though that fact lights a spark of sudden annoyance somewhere between Billy’s ribs, it thrills him, too.

So he grins, the tip of his tongue pink where it pokes from between his teeth.

“That’s hot,” he says, and the way Steve looks over at him tells him he hadn’t been expecting that response.

“Did you feel it, when she creamed all over you? Was she wearing one of those cute little skirts of hers?” Billy pauses to take a slow draw from his cigarette, leaning back to ash out the window and picturing that short little skirt and that round ass _perfectly_. “You know the one, yeah — all short and leather and shit. She wears it to every party. Did she soak through your jeans, Harrington?”

Steve is so damn pink when Billy finishes his thought, blushing from the tips of his ears to his throat and maybe even lower, under the collar of his jacket. Billy follows the trail with his eyes and is kind of irritated that he can’t tell just how far that flush goes, that he doesn’t know exactly how embarrassed Steve feels.

He wonders if that blush stretches all the way down to Harrington’s chest. And just to make sure it _does,_ Billy takes another puff from the cigarette before he speaks: “Did you get off on it, too? Bet you did. Bet the smell of it got you hard.”

Billy figures this will go one of two ways: Either Steve will play along, or he'll pussy out. He fully expects the latter, because other than defending children, Steve never really rises to his bait.

So he's surprised when, after a beat of silence spent pretending he's more focused on taking deep pulls of his cigarette, Steve finally speaks.

"Yeah," he breathes out the word along with a cloud of smoke, boldly maintaining eye contact like he’s accepted the wordless challenge to not look away. Still, Billy can tell by how Steve chews the inside of one cheek that he's nervous, or worked up. Or maybe both, because he's red up to his ears and he's shifting in his leather seat too constantly for Billy not to notice. "She _did_ soak through my jeans. Almost didn't wanna wash them after."

“Did you fuck her?” Billy goads, leaning his elbow on the center console. They’re close now, but Steve still won’t back off and Billy can’t remember the last time he’s felt such a fucking rush. He doesn’t think he’s been this excited since their scuffle at the Byers’ house.

“Did you take her to some corner and bend her up against the wall? Did she squeeze her cunt around your dick? She’s so damn loose; I always gotta tell her to clench nice and tight when I fuck her.”

Steve’s breath audibly hitches. He’s cupping his hand to his mouth, now, like he thinks he can hide his expression behind his cigarette. His other hand is on his knee, balled into a tight fist, and when Billy steals a glance at it he could _swear_ that the bulge between Steve’s legs is bigger. It’s not like he can keep that monster dick of his a secret in those jeans — or any pants, really — but Billy’s pretty sure he’s got a hard-on.

If nothing else, the way Steve is flushed and starting to fidget more in his seat makes it obvious.

“I let her ride me,” Steve murmurs it like a confession after a moment spent staring, wide-eyed, at Billy. He looks out of it, like he’s mesmerized, or like he’s too turned on to think. The sight has heat settling low in Billy’s stomach and his own dick filling out — especially when Steve keeps talking, keeps playing this game like he’s too stubborn to back down. “I like watching a girl’s tits bounce when they’re on top. She’s got nice ones, too. Really sensitive.”

Billy shifts in his seat and allows himself a brief minute to imagine it: pretty girl, soft tits, Harrington’s hands on her hips as he drives himself into her. She’s blonde and tan and her nails leave welts in Steve’s shoulders and she’s so fucking _wet,_ goddamn dripping _everywhere_.

“She’s loud, too,” Billy says as he flexes his thighs, watching Steve’s gaze flicker down between his legs before it darts away again. He looks absolutely mortified. Billy wonders how much longer before something starts to give, and presses on with a toothy grin. “Love it when they _scream.”_

Steve cranks the window a little lower under the guise of making more room to tap the ash off the end of his cigarette; Billy is pretty sure he's just trying to get air, because he's breathing a little unevenly, and the space between them feels tense and warm.

But Steve is still refusing to yield, even as he spreads his legs wider, like he's trying to subtly adjust his dick into a less uncomfortable position.

"Yeah, that's hot," Steve says between drags of his cigarette. There's a glimmer of something in his eyes when he peers across at Billy again, and then suddenly he’s letting out a low, awkward laugh. "Shit, man. I need to get laid."

Billy almost asks what Steve’s thinking about, when he says that. Almost wonders if the same fantasy is in his head, if he’s thinking about pretty girls with big tits or something else entirely.

Either way, he doesn’t think he’s going to get much of an answer if he asks outright. Doesn’t even really _care_ , to be honest, unless it makes Steve even more uncomfortable, unless it lets him win this weird game of chicken they’ve been playing. And there are _definitely_ better ways to do that. Like reaching a hand down between his own legs.

Billy adjusts himself with a grunt, spreading his legs and shifting in the seat until he feels Steve’s eyes zero in on him. He revels in every scrap of attention, squeezing himself for good measure once he’s gotten his dick where his zipper is no longer putting unnecessary pressure on it, then sighs, looking up to meet Steve’s eye and grinning in triumph when Steve looks away first.

“You looking for some pointers, Harrington? 'Cause I can give you a couple of tips, if you need to up your game.”

Even in the dim lighting and through the haze of smoke that hangs in the air between them, Billy can tell that Steve's blush has deepened. He's squirming more, too, like now that he's seen Billy touching himself he can't get his mind off it.

And those jeans look tight enough to _hurt._

"My game's just fine," Steve mutters into his palm behind his cigarette, arms folded across his chest like he's on the defensive. Billy feels so smug right then that Steve's sass doesn't annoy him, doesn't even _faze_ him. "Besides, I bet the only pointers you've got are how to trick a girl into anal."

"Don't need to trick 'em if you eat their ass out, first." Billy responds without a single ounce of shame, sticking his tongue out and jabbing the tip in Steve's direction like he has a point to prove. And he kind of does, because he's never had to _trick_ anyone into doing anything.

"Bitches practically gag for it, if you do it right."

Steve looks mortified, but also curious, and Billy smirks as he elaborates.

"You can't just stick your dick in there, Harrington. You gotta eat that pussy first, until she’s dripping. Until she's creamed herself, like, _twice_. Then when she's all happy and shit and she's squirted so much it's dripping down her crack, you go in for _seconds_." Steve won't even look at him, now, but Billy can tell he's still paying attention. Or at least, his _dick_ is.

Billy grins toothily as he leans back in his seat and spreads his legs wider. "After that, she'll _beg_ for you to put it in her ass."

Steve shifts again, the hand on his knee sliding down toward the inside of his thigh — slowly, like he hopes that Billy won’t notice. Like he thinks Billy isn’t watching every one of his reactions.

But half the fun is in seeing how much of a rise he can get out of Steve, to see if he can make _the King_ lose his cool; the other half’s in thinking about fucking women. In picturing Steve with his nose buried between some bitch’s cheeks while he eats her ass out.

“Might work for _you,”_ Steve says, flicking his cigarette butt out the open window and then finally — _finally —_ reaching down to adjust his dick in his jeans, like he can’t stand it anymore and has given up on subtlety. “Ass is a lot tighter than pussy, right? Pretty sure I wouldn’t _fit.”_

It sounds like Steve’s showing off when he says that, but Billy’s seen that monster dick in person and it doesn’t even rile him up the way Steve says it, all nonchalant and factual. It’s kind of hot, actually, at least as far as thinking about Steve working some girl open on that _beast_.

“Yeah, you would. If you had any patience,” he responds flippantly, reaching for a piece of chocolate and popping it in his mouth. “Ass holds more, don’t it?”

Steve is watching him, again — watching as Billy’s jaw works, watching as one of Billy’s hands slides between his legs to rest casually on the seat of his pants. Billy sees his throat bob, and Steve is silent for a moment before he seems to catch himself staring. His eyes snap back up again, settling on Billy’s face.

“I guess,” Steve shrugs. He sounds hesitant, or maybe he’s just distracted. “I just thought anal always kinda hurt.”

There’s another split-second pause. Then Steve adds, as if he even needs to clarify: “For the girl.”

"Some girls like when it hurts," Billy purrs, squeezing himself. He thinks about it: about pretty, manicured nails scratching long welts down his shoulders and soft lips against his throat and sharp teeth sinking into his bicep while he fucks into an impossibly-tight hole. God, it’s fucking hot. So damn hot that Billy can’t help but hiss a pleased noise and grind against the heel of his hand. It’s dry and just a little painful, but _he_ likes it when it hurts.

“You’re probably all rose petals and missionary in the dark though, aren’t you?” he goads, grinning and putting on a show because Steve is fucking _staring_ , now. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes keep darting down to Billy’s hand between his legs. It sends a thrill racing down his spine and has his blood boiling hotter, because Billy has always been a show-off when he’s got the right audience.

Steve, meanwhile, looks like he’s lost somewhere in between aghast and turned on; his eyes are wide but he hasn’t stopped moving his hand down his inner thigh until it comes to rest on top of that massive fucking bulge.

Billy wonders, if he keeps talking about this shit, if Steve’s dick is eventually going to just burst through the denim. It looks like it _might_.

Assuming Steve doesn’t break and whip it out, himself. And looks like _he_ might.

“No,” Steve grunts, sounding more distracted than annoyed, like his focus is stolen away by the effort of making sure he doesn’t move his hand like he so clearly wants to. “I’d just rather make a girl cry because it feels _good._ You ever done that?”

“You think they’d keep coming back if I _didn’t?”_ Billy scoffs, puffing his chest out at the unspoken challenge. He knows he’s a dick; it’s part of the fucking _charm,_ but if that was all he had then he didn’t think even stupid high school girls would fuck him on the regular.

“Made Mary Harford cream so hard she went hoarse from screaming my name, just a couple of weeks ago.” That had been so fucking hot, even if her voice got on his last damn nerve. “All it took was a couple fingers. She gets so _wet_ , Harrington. It’s so easy to slide right in, and her pussy’s so damn _tight_.” Billy sighs, thighs flexing as he thinks about fucking into something hot and dripping and squeezes his fist around the outline of his dick.

Steve looks like he’s teetering on the edge of joining him. His fingers spasm around his cock and his face is so fucking red it almost looks sunburnt. He hasn’t stopped staring, either. His jaw slack and big, brown eyes glassy with want, he watches Billy grind shamelessly against his own hand, and the sight of it — of sweat beading on his brow and his Adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallows — is almost as hot as fucking Mary Harford had been.

“It’s a shame she doesn’t slut around as much these days now that she's got that boyfriend of hers.”

Billy hears Steve let out a quiet snort, and Billy's eyes dart to his face just in time to catch Steve rolling his eyes. The sight has his blood boiling — because it’s Harrington’s typical dismissive _bullshit._ But Steve still has a hand between his legs, and he’s still staring attentively at Billy, and suddenly it feels more like a challenge than anything.

“You know what I think?” Steve asks; he doesn’t wait for Billy to reply before he keeps speaking. “I think you talk a big game, Hargrove.”

Steve sounds so damn sure of himself and Billy _burns_ to prove him wrong. It’s like an itch, like something’s caught under his skin every time Steve looks at him bored or incredulous or so— so fucking _dismissive,_ that if Billy doesn’t scratch it, doesn’t tear his own skin in order to excise whatever’s got him jonesing to wipe that look off Steve’s face, then it’s going to fester and grow and finally burst out of him in a way he won’t be able to control.

He flashes his teeth and leans in, putting himself right into Steve’s space, close enough to tickle the fine hair at the nape of his neck with every exhale.

“Yeah?” He glances down; Steve’s still hard, still got a hand half-covering his dick like there’s any hope of hiding the monster in his pants. “I could make _your_ little pussy cream if I wanted to, Harrington. You’d fucking beg for it, too.”

Steve's reaction is _so_ satisfying.

Shock plays across his expression, at first; those big brown doe eyes grow impossibly wider, and Steve recoils away from Billy like he's spooked. Then his face twists up into what Billy thinks might be a mix of anger and revulsion, because Steve is glaring at him, his mouth thin and his jaw tight, the hand not still resting on his dick curled into a fist.

But there's something else there, too — because Steve hasn't moved his hand from between his legs, because he looks pissed but his face is also beet red, because his eyes keep darting between Billy's eyes and his mouth like he's thinking about something. Like he's equally scandalized and _curious._

Maybe Billy imagines it; he's caught enough of a buzz off the joint, after all. But Steve isn't trying to punch him, and he has his weed so he can just leave if he's that fucking mad about it.

Instead, he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

"Stop being so fucking _gross,”_ Steve says; if he’s trying to act blasé about it, it doesn’t work. He sounds too nervous. “I’m not one of your bitches. And even if I was, guys like you are all talk.”

If before that kind of dismissal had pissed Billy off, now it only serves to fuel the fire. He’s found a crack in Steve’s prissy facade and there’s nothing at this point that Steve can say to ruin the satisfaction Billy feels at getting under his skin.

“How’re you so sure?” he asks; he's so close he can see the way the muscles of Steve's jaw flex when he clenches and it leaves him feeling a little giddy, a little high on the reaction he gets. Billy can't help but grin, nor can he help the way he lets his gaze drag from Steve's collar back to the seat of his pants.

"If you _were_ one of my bitches, princess, I'd show you a hell of a time."

For a moment, all Steve does is stare at him with that deer caught in headlights look on his face, like his brain has short-circuited and he can't figure out how to respond. Billy revels in it — in tearing open this chink he's found in Steve's armor, in milking him for every reaction he can get because it doesn't look like Steve can pretend to be unaffected, for once.

It's because he's winning, Billy thinks. It’s why he keeps pushing this. It’s why he doesn't stop leaning in, forearm braced on the stick shift, until he’s as close as he can get to Steve without reaching over to touch him.

Steve presses himself against the passenger door like Billy has him pinned, and even that is satisfying. It makes Billy feel powerful and in control.

At least until Steve says something that takes him completely off-guard.

"Yeah? Then _prove_ it.” Steve's glare is vicious, but it's not entirely convincing, like he's still putting on a front. "What would you do, huh?”

What _would_ he do? Billy looks Steve over — from the top of his perfectly-coiffed hair to where the V of his thighs meet and the bulge of his dick presses against his zip — and thinks about the question. Steve isn’t bad on the eyes; Billy’s seen him naked; he knows that he’s packing a hairy chest and a big dick and muscled runner’s thighs. Now that he’s really taking the time to think about all of that, though, he can’t seem to stop himself.

His mouth races ahead of his brain and it isn’t long before he licks his lips and shifts closer in his seat like he’s half-tempted to crawl into Steve’s lap.

“I’d start with those pretty tits of yours, _baby,”_ he says and glances pointedly down at Steve’s chest like he can just picture it despite the fact that Steve’s bundled up in three layers and then some. “I’d suck ‘em until they got all pink, until you started _whining_ for it. Bet you’d get all needy, wouldn’t you? Bet you’re a prissy little bitch when you don’t get what you want. I wouldn’t give it to you, you know. I’d stick my fingers in you and finger your little cunt until you _begged_ for me to put it in.”

Judging by Steve's reaction — his wide-eyed, stunned gaping — he hadn't expected Billy's answer. Which begs the question of what the hell he _did_ expect. Did he think Billy would be the first to pussy out of this game of chicken they're playing?

He must have, because Steve stares for a few seconds too long, like he's still processing what Billy said. Those brown eyes are so fucking big and Steve's pupils are blown wide; he looks like a trapped animal, worked up and desperate for an escape so he can flee — or an opening so he can fight.

Billy feels a vicious thrill when Steve opts for the latter.

"All that talk about how great you are with your mouth," Steve says. It's obvious he's trying to keep his voice level, but the anger still leaks through. So does the excitement. "Thought you were gonna start telling me how great you are at sucking cock, next."

Billy barks out a laugh. Steve's talking mad shit, says it like he isn't quaking in his boots, like he thinks insinuating _something_ about Billy is gonna put him off.

If anything, it fuels the fire.

"Better than whatever sluts you've been with," he says, and with Steve still staring at him like he's a deer caught in headlights, Billy reaches to close the distance between them and shove at Steve's chest.

"Wouldn't take much, anyway. None of the chicks in this town even know how to suck dick decently."

For a moment, it looks like Steve is too stupefied to say anything. Billy’s hand is still on his chest from where he’d shoved him into the door, and he’s left wide-eyed and gaping. He doesn’t even look mad — more confused than anything, like he can’t even figure out what to feel.

It might have been more amusing if his drawn-out silence wasn’t getting on Billy’s last nerve. He’s agitated and waiting for Steve to give him something, some kind of reaction. The dumbfounded silence is too much, and it gets to the point that Billy considers doing something — _anything —_ just to get a rise out of Steve.

Thankfully, Steve suddenly remembers how to speak before Billy can act on that impulse.

“But you think _you_ do?” he asks. There’s a hint of a challenge there, which comes as no surprise. What _is_ surprising is the way Steve is looking at him, now; there’s no disgust there, no mocking sneer. Hell, Billy thinks he looks kind of _intrigued,_ like maybe he’s entertaining the fantasy.

Billy wets his lips, and Steve must not realize how ridiculously unsubtle he is about the way his eyes immediately snap to Billy’s mouth.

He also, apparently, doesn’t realize just how far Billy is willing to go for the sake of his pride.

_“Probably,”_ Billy says and flexes his fingers in the thick fabric of Steve’s jacket. He thinks he can feel Steve’s heart jack-hammering under the fistful Billy has of his parka, and it fills him with a thrill that races like electricity down his spine. He’s got Steve where he wants him; it’s on _Steve_ to pussy out, now, and if he does — if he runs off with his tail tucked between his legs — then at least Billy will know that he’s won.

“Why, Harrington? You looking to try it?”

Steve looks like he’s considering whether or not to bolt; he’s red-faced and tight-lipped and obviously flustered, like Billy’s gotten so deep under his skin that Steve has gone mute. Billy expects him to make a quick exit any second now. It isn’t like Steve has ever risen to his bait before.

So it comes as something of a shock when Steve clears his throat and says, voice as level as he can keep it: “Alright.”

It’s Billy’s turn to stare. Steve holds his gaze like it’s a contest, unblinking as the hand between his legs pointedly pops free the button of his jeans.

“You wanna suck my dick to prove a point?” Steve says, and that tone of voice is so infuriatingly dismissive and snide, like he thinks he’s calling Billy’s bluff. “Then go ahead.”

It can’t possibly be _that_ fucking easy, some part of Billy’s mind thinks, and for a minute he feels like his brain’s shorted out. He must look a little shell-shocked, because Steve is staring right back at him with a smug expression on his face, like he thinks he’s won or something. Like he doesn’t expect that, _yeah,_ Billy is gonna suck a dick just to prove a point.

He shakes himself out of it with a snort.

“Didn’t think you’d be _this_ eager.” He sounds mocking, or at least he hopes he does, flashing his teeth in a mean curl of his lips as he finally loosens his grip on Steve’s jacket and instead drags it down. He takes his time, like he’s waiting for Steve to jerk away and tumble out of the car, but when he doesn’t, when he stares Billy down and clenches his fists in his lap like he’s trying not to flinch, Billy finally skips the pretense.

He reaches down and curls a hand around the inside of Steve’s thigh, presses two fingers to the hard, hot length of his dick where it strains against his jeans, and ignores the way it makes his own cock twitch. Billy rubs it, just a little, just until Steve’s thigh flexes under his palm, and grins.

“Ready for me to suck that little clitty, _baby?”_

Steve's gone so wide-eyed it might have been comical, if it wasn't accompanied by a quiet, shuddering groan that sounds like it's been punched out of him. He looks surprised at that, too, as if the fact that Billy's hand feels good is as much of a shock as the fact that Billy is touching him at all. And it looks like Steve's too stunned to react beyond that, at least initially.

Then Billy's other hand is working open Steve's zipper, and the one on Steve's dick is giving another squeeze, and there's a dull _thud_ and accompanying grunt as the back of Steve's head cracks against the glass.

Maybe it's what finally snaps Steve out of his stunned silence.

“Wait—” he says in a gasp, grabbing at Billy’s wrist just as he finally gets the front of Steve’s jeans open.

"But we've just _started,"_ Billy sneers and doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t squeeze again, either. Steve’s still so damn hard, though, his expression torn between red-faced lust and embarrassment, and Billy can almost see his brain trying to wrap around his current predicament.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna pussy out, Harrington. I thought you wanted me to prove a point?”

Steve breathes in sharply and holds it, his chest puffed up, his eyes narrowed like he’s more annoyed than nervous. And he _must_ be, because rather than shove Billy’s hand away, Steve’s grip is loosening. He doesn’t let go, but the fact that he hasn’t left, either, means that Billy still has him exactly where he wants him.

“You’re fucking with me,” Steve says. He doesn’t sound entirely sure of it, or maybe he’s just trying to goad Billy back. As if he even needs to.

Billy is already keyed up on adrenaline, and all Steve's incredulous accusation does is fuel the fire even more. He says nothing — doesn't _need_ to, when the renewed pressure of his hand against Steve's dick is more than enough response — and rubs a little harder, a little meaner while he works Steve's aching dick from underneath his jeans and through the slit of his underwear.

It's big. It's so fucking big that Billy can't help but stare at it for a minute, caught up in how heavy it feels in his hand. The tip of it is flushed pink and beaded with pre and Billy feels his mouth go a little dry.

It's the first time he's held a dick that wasn't his own. Which, honestly, he hadn't ever thought he'd touch another guy's dick — hadn't wanted it and hadn't planned on it — but now that he's _here,_ with Steve Harrington's massive cock curled loosely in his palm, he isn't sure how to feel about the whole thing.

So Billy doesn't. He strokes it mindlessly, doesn't think about exactly what he's doing, just pumps it a couple of times in his fist how he likes it: a little tight under the head with a squeeze and a twist of his wrist.

"This why they called you _King Steve?_ " He finds his tongue along with a rhythm and talks to drown out the pounding in his own ears, face growing red and gaze focused on the slide of Steve's dick between his fingers. He doesn't think he can handle looking up at Steve's face just then, not if the breathy little noises he's making are anything to go by.

The hand clasped around his wrist suddenly tightens to the point of painful, but Steve still isn’t trying to yank him away yet so Billy isn’t going to stop. He refuses to be the first one to end this — he’s already fucking _committed_ and everything, so there’s no backing out now.

So it should really come as a relief rather than a source of frustration when Billy hears tires crunching on gravel nearby. He can both see and feel the way Steve locks up, eyes gone somehow even wider as he comes to the same realization that Billy grudgingly does. They have company. And that really shouldn’t come as a surprise; it isn’t like Billy parked anywhere all that secluded.

Still, he feels a surge of annoyance when Steve leans forward and shoves insistently at his shoulder until Billy takes his hand away.

“I gotta go,” he says too quickly. It’s obviously a lie, because Steve didn’t have anywhere to go five seconds ago, but there’s a frantic edge to his voice as he zips his jeans back up and fumbles for the door handle.

Billy doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t think anyone would see them and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to tell what was happening, but with Steve scrambling to put his dick back in his pants and tumbling out of the car, Billy is pretty sure it means he’s _won_.

He’s also pretty sure he shouldn’t be so fucking annoyed about it.

The headlights pass over them and the ugly little hatchback disappears into the night, but by then Steve has already retreated back to his car. Billy can just make him out through the front windshield, watching as he peels out of the parking lot and leaves Billy snarling at nothing in particular while disappointment curls in his gut.

He’s not sure where the bitter taste in his mouth came from. Or why the prospect of idling here for the rest of the night waiting for more customers fills him with agitation.

Billy is sure of one thing, though, as he furiously tosses the near-empty box of chocolates out the window and throws his Camaro into drive: Steve Harrington is a fucking _pussy._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys celebrate Spring Break together.

**February 20th, 1985**

Steve isn’t great at being subtle.

It’s never been his style; he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and blurt the first words that come to his head. It gets him in trouble more often than not.

So, Steve _knows_ how obvious he’s being when he avoids Billy at school the following week. It’s not like they interact in the halls or in PE class to begin with, but Steve gives him a wider berth than usual, now. He avoids Billy on the basketball court when he can. Slinks in and out of the locker room before Billy can join him in the showers. Pretends like he doesn’t notice the way Billy’s stare burns holes in the back of his head.

But if Billy notices — and Steve thinks he must, that the way his hair keeps standing up on the back of his neck whenever he passes Billy in the halls means that Billy definitely fucking _notices_ — he doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t come after Steve when the school bell rings at the end of the day.

The fucked up part is, there’s a small part of Steve that kind of wishes Billy _would._ At least then he wouldn’t feel like he’s been the only one still thinking about last Friday night at the lake.

As if it makes it any less fucked up knowing that Billy’s been jerking off to the memory, too.

Steve tries to push it all out of his head. He’s got enough on his mind these days, and the last person he needs kicking around his thoughts is Billy Hargrove.

It’s what Steve tells himself as he tries (and fails) to roll a joint in the dim light of his parent’s garage while pretending like he isn’t already thinking about crawling back to Lover’s Lake for more.

**March 9th, 1985**

It’s the week of spring break, and Billy’s side hustle has been steady. There are plenty of bored teenagers and homebound college rednecks hankering for a bit of bud to celebrate. Billy even has a few bottles of liquor hidden in his trunk for anyone underage and unfortunate enough not to have a fake ID or someone to buy for them.

He’s parked in his usual spot by the lake — it’s the only one that Sheriff Hopper and his goons haven’t sniffed out yet — and is in the middle of counting out twenty dollar bills when there’s a gentle rapping on the passenger side window. It’s a relief when he glances up and doesn’t spot any cops leering back at him, but Billy isn’t exactly pleased to see Harrington standing there, instead.

It’s been nearly a month since he ran away with his tail between his legs after Billy touched his dick. Billy had been content enough to pretend to forget about it. It isn’t like Steve talked. Fucking _figures_ he didn’t; it’s not the kind of shit you talk about in a town like this without getting your teeth knocked out. Or worse.

Still, Steve could have dragged Billy’s name through the mud if he really wanted to. The possibility of it was what had Billy so keyed up these past weeks.

That’s definitely the only reason. It’s not like Billy’s nursing any bitterness, or anything. When he throws Steve an icy glare, it’s only because he’s always hated Hawkins High’s former king.

Billy is fully prepared to ignore Steve and go back to counting his bills when Steve pointedly raises a six-pack of Coors with a wary smile.

Billy isn’t sure why that’s all it takes for him to grudgingly unlock the door. Because he’s still in a bad mood when Steve slips into the seat beside him.

“Hey,” Steve says, setting down the beers between them like it’s some kind of peace offering. “Busy night?”

Are they doing small talk now? Billy doesn’t feel up to idle chatter, but Steve doesn’t leave after he puts the beer down and he’s staring, expectant, like he’s waiting for Billy to say something.

“Busier than yours,” is what he finally drawls and licks his thumb, counting through a few more crumpled bills before folding the whole wad up and tucking it into his jacket. It’s not too bad for a single night’s work. Billy thinks he should maybe call it before he ends up using all of his luck. He’s made enough money over the last couple days to fuel his own dirty habits, and if the pile of cash under his bed continues to grow like it has been, he might be able to cut loose to California the minute he turns eighteen.

He doubts Neil would follow him back there. Most he'll probably get is a ' _good riddance'._

A beat of silence passes. Steve looks like he’s biting his tongue in an effort to be polite, like he thinks that’s going to change anything (like something _has_ changed since the last time they’d seen each other). Billy finally turns to look him over because he can’t deal with the lack of reaction.

“You know I don’t do trades for weed, Harrington,” he says and takes a can anyway, popping the tab. “Cash only.”

At least that finally gets Steve talking.

“I know.” He shrugs and reaches to grab a can for himself, watching Billy all the while like he’s trying to gauge his reaction. It’s annoying, because Steve won’t _stop_ staring and Billy isn’t sure what the hell he’s waiting for. “I have too much beer to drink alone. And it’s spring break, so I figured—”

Steve shrugs again and takes a long swig of Coors.

“Figured you might as well spread the wealth around, huh?” It’s a pretty flimsy excuse, and not just because Billy can count at least a dozen people Steve would probably rather share a beer with than him, but he can’t decide if he really wants to press it. It might lose him a six pack of beer if Steve gets pissy and decides to leave.

Billy takes a swig. It’s cold, which makes him think that Steve bought it on his way to the lake. That raises a lot more questions than Billy cares to ask, so he chugs half a can without reading too deeply into it and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand once he’s done. He's already a little buzzed from the half a joint he’d smoked earlier that evening.

“How much do you want this time?”

Steve seems to think about it for a second, mouth still pressed to the lip of his can. He takes another long drink, to the point where Billy is pretty sure he’s just about finished it already.

“Can I get, like, a half of a quarter?” Steve asks.

“What, you want an _eighth?”_ Billy asks snidely as he reaches for the paper bag under his seat. He fishes three baggies out and tucks the rest back where it came from. “It’s twenty-five bucks.”

There’s something too heavy in the air and Billy doesn’t really know how to deal with it, so he holds the baggies out and chugs the rest of the can like he thinks that’s going to help with the tension.

Steve pulls out a few bills from his jacket pocket and pushes them into Billy’s waiting palm. He takes two of the baggies, then, and pointedly leaves behind the third.

“You want to roll some of that?” It’s so fucking obnoxious, the way Steve says it — like he expects Billy will say yes, like he _hopes_ Billy will. He finishes off his can of Coors and grabs a second, cracking it open and settling into his seat. Billy is half-tempted to tell him to fuck off, but then Steve tilts his head and nods his chin toward the six pack.

“I’ll let you drink half if you do.”

Billy still feels annoyed as hell, but it’s tempered somewhat by the offer of beer, and maybe a little by the way Steve is _trying._ Trying for what, Billy isn’t sure. He’s a little suspicious of it, but Steve’s the closest thing to a decent conversation he’s gotten all night. And unlike the little pre-teens that come by with wrinkled dollar bills stolen from their parents’ wallets, he doesn’t quiver in his kicks while he talks. It’s kind of a nice change of pace.

So Billy rolls a joint, lights it up, and passes it over after he takes a hit, trading it in exchange for a second can of beer while they lapse into a stilted silence that drags on for what feels like minutes.

“Figured you’d be at some lakehouse this week, Harrington.” Billy cuts through the quiet first, sinking into his seat and watching the silhouettes of a couple bats fluttering outside in the light of the moon. “Daddy too busy for vacation?”

Something in the air sours, curdling like spoiled milk. Steve’s mouth drops into a frown, but he stares resolutely out the front windshield as he takes a too-long drag off the joint. It ends in a cloud of smoke and a coughing fit, but maybe that’s what he was going for, because it’s a while before he dignifies Billy with any kind of reply.

In fact, Billy is starting to suspect that Steve just _isn’t_ going to respond at all, when he finishes hacking up a lung and swigging back the last of his second can of beer. It’s like he still hasn’t figured out how to take a rip without killing himself, even after all these quarters of weed he’s apparently been burning through.

Steve is still staring out the front windshield when he finally speaks up.

“We don’t have a lakehouse,” he says. “It’s just a cottage. And everyone had other plans, so I decided not to go.”

If Steve is trying to be subtle about how put-out he’s feeling, he's failing miserably at it.

It’s kind of pathetic, Billy thinks, watching Steve pout over a throwaway comment that he hadn’t even really meant anything by. If he’d wanted to drag Harrington down, he sure as shit would’ve picked something more interesting to ridicule him for, like why he’d been too chicken-shit to hit Billy up for the last month. Not that Billy thinks they’d like, _hang out,_ or whatever, but he’s not stupid. Steve has been avoiding him like the plague the last few weeks, whereas in the past they’d usually exchange a word or an insult any time they saw each other in the halls around school.

Billy’s not bitter, but he is pretty pissed that Steve is acting like such a pussy about it.

“Poor you,” he deadpans as he holds out his hand for the joint. “Couldn’t find a girl to take up there with you, huh?”

Steve glowers at him. He takes a long hit off the joint and doesn’t immediately hand it over, like he’s making a point to bogart it just to piss Billy off. It works, is the thing, and when Steve takes a quick third puff and then moves to hold it out, Billy forcibly swipes it out of his hand.

“Shouldn’t you be sleazing it up at a house party somewhere?” Steve says in lieu of answering the question, grabbing a third can of beer from the center console and cracking it open. He’s already acting like he’s buzzed, or maybe Billy’s got him riled up enough to start running his mouth. “I heard Tommy’s throwing one later tonight. Mary and Stacy are probably gonna be there.”

“I might go later.” Billy doesn’t really want to, though. He doesn’t like Tommy all that much, and Stacy’s still pissed at him over the whole Valentine’s Day thing. It’s not like he’s actually tried to patch it up with her since then. He’s pretty sure if he was really looking to get his dick wet tonight, a little vodka and a little sweet talk is all it would take to get her dripping all over him again.

Billy just isn’t sure he really _feels_ like it tonight, though.

“Why aren’t you there? Thought you and Tommy were friends again.”

Steve shrugs as he throws back a long swig of his beer. Considering how quickly he's been hammering them back and how deeply he's been dragging at the joint every time Billy hands it back, it seems like he's intent on getting fucked up. Billy wonders why — not because he gives a shit, of course. Call it simple curiosity. And Steve is always acting like he's in a bit of a mood whenever he shows up looking for weed.

_Whatever._ It's not like it's any of Billy's business, and he’s not about to ask.

"We aren't," Steve answers belatedly. Billy can't help but snort as he takes a puff and passes back the joint.

" _Really?_ Because I'm pretty sure he’s obsessed with you, or something." Billy rolls his eyes. Tommy's _got_ to be queer, because the number of times he's gone off about Steve like he's some kind of jilted ex-lover is half the reason why Billy can't stand him. It's so fucking _annoying._ ”He's always talking about you."

Steve visibly tenses up.

"Yeah?" he prompts. If he's trying to sound casual, it falls flat. Billy can tell something's got him nervous. "What does he say?"

Steve keeps glancing over at him while he waits for an answer like he’s scared of what Billy might tell him. It piques Billy’s curiosity, because despite that he beat Harrington’s face in, he’s never seen him looking this nervous before.

As far as Billy knows, Tommy hasn’t really _said_ anything. It makes Billy wonder if that’s just because he ignores ninety percent of the shit that comes out of Tommy’s mouth or if he hasn’t been reading between the lines. He’s starting to suspect it’s probably the latter, with how skittish Steve is acting all of a sudden.

“He just… _talks,”_ Billy says, waving his hand vaguely in the air. “Never fucking shuts up, either. Mostly bitches about about how you’ve _changed._ Sounds like an annoying ex-girlfriend, if you ask me.”

Steve’s shoulders slump in relief. He takes a couple hits off the joint and then hands it back so he can nurse his third beer, instead.

Billy makes a mental note to listen more closely to Hagan’s bitching the next time he sees him. Maybe he’s got dirt on Steve. Maybe it’s the kind of dirt Billy can make use of.

In the meantime, though, Steve seems to have stopped caring about it.

“Anyway, I was still thinking about going,” Steve says, backpedalling to an earlier point in the conversation like their little aside hadn’t happened. He throws Billy a teasing grin. “Maybe _I’ll_ hit Stacy up, if you’re not gonna.”

Billy snorts, but he’s kind of glad for the distraction. It means that Steve’s not moping anymore, that he’s not harshing the mellow they seem to have settled into.

“Gonna help yourself to my sloppy seconds, huh?” he asks after a hit and passes the joint back; he isn’t going nearly as hard as Steve has been, still only on his second beer while Steve knocks his third one back like it’s the last he’s ever gonna get. “You do you, man. But Mary’s better.”

Steve shakes his head as he leans in for the joint, and doesn’t retreat back into his seat once he pinches it from between Billy’s fingers. He lingers there, instead, leaning half-way over to Billy’s side of the seat as he takes a couple quick puffs without coughing (which, for Steve, is kind of impressive) and blows the smoke toward the windshield.

“No way,” he says. There’s something playful about his tone, now, like he’s finally loosening up. Billy can’t help but think it’s kind of a good look on him, even if Steve is being a cheeky shit. “Stacy gives way better head. It’s a brunette thing.”

That earns him a snort and an eyeroll. Billy still kind of wants to punch him, but it’s tempered by the way Steve grins at him, like he’s _daring_ Billy to say something.

Billy’s never been very good at backing down from a dare, and he isn’t about to start now.

“That mean _you’re_ better at giving head, Harrington?” he asks and grins at the incredulous look it earns him, snatching back the joint while Steve’s distracted. There’s a flush creeping up his throat and suddenly he can’t seem to make eye contact, glancing away too quickly when their eyes meet. Billy grins, smug that he’s won their unofficial staring contest, and puffs on the joint while he waits for some kind of rebuttal.

It doesn’t take Steve as long to come up with one as Billy expected it would, probably thanks to the alcohol. Still, he’s tentative in the way he glances up to meet Billy’s eyes again, holding his can of beer up to his lips almost like he’s trying to hide behind it.

“I thought _you_ were the pro,” Steve mutters. He’s staring at Billy intently, now. Billy doesn’t miss the way those big brown eyes jump to his mouth as Billy pops the tip of the joint between his lips. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

Billy sucks on the end of the joint for a long time, staring Steve down and torn between rising to the bait and being pissed. He exhales from his nose, and for a minute Steve goes a little blurry, obfuscated by the billows of smoke that dance across Billy’s vision.

God, he must be high, too, because when he pulls the joint from between his teeth, it’s with a “ _yeah_ ,” like it isn’t weird that Steve’s bringing that shit up again. Like Billy’s ever even _touched_ another guy’s dick before a month ago.

“Better than any brunette,” he continues, watching Steve. He half-expects him to bolt again. “You gonna pussy out and run away, this time?”

“I didn’t—” Steve cuts off mid-sentence. His grin crumples into a grimace. It’s brief, though, quickly disappearing behind his can of beer as he takes another long swig.

Then he throws Billy this stupid fucking _look —_ a cocked eyebrow and an glint in his eyes that’s somehow equal parts curious and challenging — and it’s obvious Steve is drunk because Billy has never seen him get quite so bold before.

Well, barring that one time Steve clocked him.

But other than _that._

“ _This time,_ huh?” Steve echoes. “Does that mean you’re gonna pick up where we left off?”

“You gonna let me?” Billy shoots back, watching as Steve leans against his seat and spreads his legs in what has to be the _least_ subtle invitation Billy’s ever seen. It’s obscene the way his jeans stretch over his lap and show off the curve of his dick, which Billy’s pretty sure isn’t even _hard,_ though the longer he stares Steve up and down, raking his eyes over him like he isn’t sure where he’s gonna start yet, the more obvious the bulge in his pants gets.

Billy’s mouth has gone dry and he feels kind of lost for a second, still sitting there watching Steve stupidly. He’s _definitely_ too high, but rather than use that as an excuse to end this whole thing before it starts, Billy puffs on the end of the joint and holds the smoke in his lungs while he leans forward over the center console and braces one hand against the dash. When he’s just inches from Steve’s face, he blows the smoke out, reveling in the stunned look on Steve’s face once it clears.

“If you’re gonna run off again, I’m not gonna waste my time.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath. Billy can feel it brush across his chin and throat, feather-light and warm and so, _so_ tempting. It makes him want more than just the ghost of Steve’s touch. It makes him want to close that frustrating bit of distance between them and lay his hands on Steve and rough him up a little — but not with his fists, this time.

It doesn’t help Billy’s self-control that Steve is staring at him like he’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Not gonna run away,” Steve mutters after a moment spent stewing in tense silence. The anticipation is making Billy’s entire body thrum. He watches intently as Steve wets his lips and then leans away until his back is against the seat again. His eyes never leave Billy for a second. There’s a flush high on his cheeks as he sets down his beer and rests a hand on the inseam of his jeans

It’s the same scene before, Billy thinks, only the air between them feels a little different this time — it’s thicker, more electric. Like they’ve both been waiting for this. Like they’ve both been thinking about it for this past month.

Steve tilts his chin up and watches Billy through half-lidded eyes. The look he’s giving Billy, those defiant fucking _bedroom eyes,_ makes Billy’s head swim and his blood boil.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Steve says. It doesn’t sound like a lie. The hand between his thighs slides a little higher, until he’s practically palming at his own dick through his pants. “C’mon, you waiting for an invitation or something?”

“A little _please_ wouldn’t hurt,” Billy teases. And it does feel like he’s teasing, rather than mocking, especially when he finally closes the distance between them.

He rests a hand on Steve's knee at first. Billy doesn't want to seem too desperate, even if some part of him is itching to tear off Steve's clothes and dig his fingers into the skin of his hips. He's doing this to prove a point; it's not like he actually, _really_ wants to suck Steve's dick.

Billy's just curious, and Steve's willing, and there's the lingering smoke of weed in the air and a buzz in his veins that he'll later use to justify the way he drags his hand up Steve's knee and presses his thumb into the meat of his thigh.

"Gonna ask nicely?"

Steve’s gotta be drunk and stoned out of his mind, too, because when he drags his eyes up to meet Billy’s, there’s barely a moment’s pause before he says:

_“Please?”_

There’s a hint of sarcasm there, Billy thinks. He can't bring himself to care, though, because Steve is batting those lashes of his and brushing his fingers across Billy’s knuckles. When Billy inches his hand up a little farther, bumping his palm against the obvious bulge pressed up against Steve’s zipper, he hears a gasp. He glances up in time to see that Steve is still staring at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted and cheeks stained pink. He already looks like he’s desperate for it, and _shit,_ if that isn’t the hottest thing Billy’s ever seen.

"Even Stacy ain't _this_ easy," he mutters, just because he can — just because it earns him a glower from Steve that melts away the moment Billy grinds the heel of his palm against Steve’s dick. Billy likes the look it earns him; it's caught somewhere between mortified and blissed out. It reminds him of the kind of face some pretty girl doing her first _Playboy_ shoot would put on, just to seem a little more innocent.

Except, Billy's pretty sure that Steve isn't trying to put on a show. His breathing is too quick and his face is too red. When Billy leans down — when he finally presses his face to the outline of Steve's dick and inhales musk through the denim and catches the pull of the zipper between his teeth with a quiet _clack_ — Steve looks like he's going to cum in his jeans.

Billy smirks and gives a little with his teeth, undoing the zipper part of the way before his patience runs thin and he flicks the button open with his thumb, instead.

Steve cusses something through his teeth that Billy doesn’t catch. A second later, he’s touching the back of Billy’s head, all slow and tentative at first, like he’s petting a stray dog and afraid it might bite him. When Billy doesn’t, when all he does is get his mouth buried right back against Steve’s crotch, Steve gets a little bolder. His fingers curl through Billy’s hair, nails pressing to his scalp with the faintest hint of insistence.

It should piss him off, probably. Instead, Billy finds himself craving _more._

He wants more pushing. More tugging. More _force,_ because there’s something about the thought of Steve trying to get too rough and handsy and _mean_ with him that has Billy’s blood running hot.

It’s why Billy decides to stoke Harrington’s fire, even as he starts teasing out his cock from his boxers.

“You like that?” he mumbles, dragging the pad of his thumb over the leaking slit. It’s already slick with precum. Billy smears some of it down Steve’s dick, pumping his fist a couple of times until Steve’s fingers flex in his hair. “You like when I touch your little clitty, huh?”

Above him, Steve is breathing shakily. It sounds like he's already about to blow his load, like Billy had already worked him right to the edge. The thought sends a swell of pride to his chest, has Billy’s dick throbbing in his jeans.

Billy almost forgets that he's waiting on Steve to react to the insult. He almost doesn't care when, for a long moment, Steve _doesn't._

It takes Billy off-guard when Steve's fingers suddenly twist in his hair until his scalp stings.

"Fuck you," Steve snarls, his voice low and gravely and so fucking _hot_ that Billy can't help but slide his free hand between his thighs to palm at his own dick, grinding at it in time to the slow pump of his fist.

He likes when Steve gets testy with him. He likes when it feels like they're pacing at the edge of a fight. It's familiar. It makes it easier for Billy not to think about the fact that he's groping himself while he gives Steve Harrington a handy, or that he's _enjoying this._

Steve suddenly tugs his head closer. The roughness of it has Billy hissing.

"Thought you were gonna suck it," Steve says. If he's trying to sound demanding, it just comes off as pouty.

Billy wonders how far he can push this. He wants to see Steve _really_ get mean. He wants to find that same fire Steve had the last time they’d fought, when Steve had cut his knuckles on Billy’s teeth. He’s _itching_ for it, gagging for something that doesn’t make this feel like the only reason he’s got his nose pressed up against the side of another guy’s dick is because that’s all he’s fucking thought about for the last month.

‘Proving a point’ is really starting to feel like a flimsy excuse when he’s already here, one hand squeezing his own dick while the other holds Steve’s steady.

“Beg for it,” Billy snarls, breathing hot over the length of Steve's dick. It's fucking huge — looks even bigger when he's so close — but it can't be that difficult to suck it, not if every bitch in Hawkins seems capable of doing a half-decent job.

Billy flicks his tongue up the thick vein on the underside. It tastes like skin and sweat and very little else. He squeezes his own dick and waits, peering up from under his lashes to see what Steve's gonna _do_ about it.

At first, it seems like all Steve’s gonna do is lie there and take what he’s given like a bitch. He throws his head back against the seat, letting out a pathetic groan that sounds a little strained, a little like he’s fucking _dying,_ and Billy can’t help but scoff even as he gives Steve’s cock another barely-there swipe with his tongue.

“This all it takes to turn you bitch, Harrington?” he sneers, flashing Steve a nasty, toothy grin when he tilts his chin down to glare at Billy. “ _Shit,_ no wonder Wheeler did such a number on you. She suck your dick real good before she ran off with Byers?”

And that _—_ the mere fucking _mention_ of Nancy Wheeler — seems to be all it takes to throw Steve into a fury.

The hand on the back of Billy’s head yanks with enough sudden force to leave his eyes stinging as Steve pulls him forward. Billy nearly loses his balance, has to brace one hand on Steve’s thigh and the other on the seat just to keep from pitching forward. He’s forced up against Steve’s lap, mouth pressed to his cock, the hand in his hair twisting and twisting until Billy lets out a low hiss.

It hurts.

He kind of fucking _loves_ it.

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” Steve snaps, and when Billy’s only response is a mocking huff of laughter, Steve yanks his head again. Pulls him away, this time, with a roll of his eyes. Billy can tell by the tense set of his jaw and the smoldering, vicious gleam in his eyes that Harrington is pissed. “I knew you were just talk. Fuck this.”

He shoves Billy’s head away, then, letting go of his hair in the process.

Billy wants to ask if Steve’s gonna fucking cry about it, wants to wonder aloud if he’s still so hung up on Wheeler that even mentioning her name is gonna send him into a spiral. The answer is probably _yes_ , but the urge to dig the knife a little deeper is tempered only by the way his pride still stings.

He doesn’t want Steve running off before he gets the chance to _really_ blow his mind.

“Shut the fuck up.” He pins Steve down, holding him in place with hands on his hips and fingers digging bruises into his skin, then dips his head. Something salty-bitter hits his tongue this time when he drags it over the slit, and for a second Billy recoils, pulls away and wrinkles his nose and tries to get used to it.

It’s fucking _weird_.

But Steve’s hand is back in his hair, and while he isn’t encouraging, he isn’t pulling him away, either. He just sort of leaves it there, like he isn’t sure what the hell to do with himself.

Billy covers his teeth with his tongue and goes back in for more. He seals his lips around the tip of Steve’s cock and thinks about what he likes when he’s got a girl between his legs. He hollows his cheeks, his breath rushing out of him, puffing from his nostrils in a sharp exhale as he sinks down and swallows as much as he can without gagging.

He barely gets half of Steve’s dick shoved into his mouth before the fat head of it nudges against his soft palate. Billy has to clench his fist to keep from gagging, but after a couple of seconds spent breathing in quick, shallow breaths, Billy feels the compulsion to cough fade away. He starts moving, then, bobbing his head slowly until he hears Steve gasp above him. Until he feels the hand in his hair curl tighter. Until Steve lets out a slurred cuss and starts tentatively rocking his hips up like he’s trying to fuck his way into Billy’s throat.

It shouldn’t be this hot. Billy shouldn’t have to sink his nails into Steve’s thigh just to keep from reaching down and jerking himself off.

But _fuck,_ he’s _living_ for the sounds Steve starts making as he gets into it. For the way Steve keeps jerking up whenever Billy pulls away to suck at the tip. Even the feeling of a cock in Billy’s mouth, especially one that’s so fucking big that Billy thinks his jaw might start to hurt if he does this long enough is growing on him, along with _taste_ — salty, bitter musk, nothing like a pussy.

It’s fucking _better._

Billy decides not to think about it too deeply. He decides, instead, to focus on proving his point by working more of those sounds out of Steve.

He uses all the tricks he can think of, everything a girl’s ever done that’s made him cum down her throat. Billy pulls away to spit on it, getting Steve’s cock nice and wet and sloppy, spreading that warm slick down the length of him with a few pumps of his fist. Steve squirms at that, and Billy feels a surge of annoyance when he glances up and notices that he has his eyes squeezed shut.

“What, you trying to pretend I’m one of your high school sluts, Harrington?” Billy sneers. He gives the base of Steve’s dick a rough squeeze, enough to make him grunt and blink his eyes open again. His glare is unfocused, but the tense set of Steve’s jaw tells Billy that he’s gotten under his skin. “Bet I give better head than Wheeler. Bet she was too much of a prude to suck you off.”

And that does it — of course it does. Any mention of Nancy Wheeler puts Steve right back on the warpath.

It’s pathetic.

But it’s also what Billy wanted, because no sooner do the words leave his mouth and he gets it back on Steve’s dick does the hand on the back of his head push him down, forcing more inches of cock down his throat than he was prepared to take. It takes every ounce of willpower not to cough, his nails digging deep into his palm and his nostrils flaring as he breathes through it, but the sting in his eyes is unavoidable.

It shouldn't turn him on so much. Steve's just so angry, is the thing, so rough with it, that this feels more like a fight than something intimate.

_"Shit,”_ Steve hisses, his voice choked off. He's fucking up into Billy's mouth now, movements too rough and erratic for Billy to keep pace with. So he doesn't. He just lets Steve use him, instead. He lets Steve fuck his mouth while he gets a hand down between his legs so he can palm at his own dick again.

There's spit dripping past his lips and coating his chin by the time the hand in his hair tenses and Steve's speaks, voice strained and reedy.

"M'gonna—"

It can’t have been more than a couple of minutes, Billy thinks dazedly, trying to swallow around whatever’s in his mouth with little success. Steve fucks into him, babbles some other mindless bullshit about how close he’s getting, how _good_ it feels, how he’s gonna _cum_. Billy’s so fucking hard he’s pretty sure he might black out, though on second thought that might just be the way Steve’s trying to cram the last couple inches of his dick down his throat, or the way he’s _this_ fucking close to choking every time Steve’s hips flex and he drives himself just that little bit deeper. He can’t remember the last time he took a breath, feels dizzy and teary-eyed and messy with snot and spit dripping down his chin.

He gets as far as cupping himself through his jeans again, desperate for _something_ to take the edge off, when the first drops of spunk hit the back of his throat. It coats his tongue so thickly he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to breathe again. Billy retches, gags, then fights Steve’s fingers in his hair only to earn himself a streak of cum across his lips and the arches of his cheeks when he finally pulls away in a fit of coughs.

“ _Fuck._ ” Steve looks blissed out, still rolling his hips in these aborted little thrusts like his dick’s trying to find a warm hole to fuck into. Billy watches it, licking cum off his lips and wiping it from under his eyes before he wraps one sticky hand around Steve's cock until he’s finally fucking done, until he’s twitching and shaking and trying to get away.

And then Billy doesn’t let go, because he isn’t done ‘proving his point’ yet and has no intention of stopping just because Steve thinks it’s over.

“It’s really been that long, huh?” Billy says, mocking. He leans in and gets his teeth on the soft lobe of Steve’s ear, hears him audibly gasp and flinch at the sensation. When Billy pulls away again, he can see that Steve’s jaw is clenched, that his eyes are glassy. He looks both dazed and a little pissed, but he’s not trying to get away from Billy’s hand aside from his constant squirming.

“Think that might have been too easy for me, Harrington. Maybe I should keep going.”

Steve makes a noise, something that sounds an awful lot like a whimper. His face burns brighter and his teeth dig into his bottom lip, and he stares resolutely ahead with barely open eyes like he’s refusing to so much as look at Billy. It might have annoyed Billy more if it wasn’t for that fucked-out look on Steve’s face. He looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

_Fuck,_ it’s almost as hot as the face Steve makes when he’s pissed off.

“You can beg me if you want to stop,” Billy tells him, pumping Steve’s still-hard cock in his fist. Steve’s thighs twitch, his stomach jumping. One of his hands clamps around Billy’s wrist, but it just hangs there limply like he still hasn’t decided if he wants this to end.

Billy doesn’t give him the chance to think about it too long. His fingers twist — slippery with cum and spit — around the length of Steve’s dick, thumb dragging over his sensitive cumslit until Steve’s fingers flex threateningly around his wrist, until he digs cruel welts into Billy’s skin and the leather of the seat he’s sprawled in. He looks fucking obscene with the fly of his jeans open and his dick out and his shirt shoved up his stomach. It’s so damn hot that Billy wants to _wreck_ him, wants to make him cry.

He loosens his grip and Steve exhales a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived when Billy skims his fingers lower, presses two behind his sack and against the sensitive skin of his taint.

They’re still wet with spend and Billy doesn’t hesitate to press one against Steve’s asshole. It gives, just a little, and before Steve can shove him out of the way Billy plants a hand on his chest and pushes him into the door, circling the tight pucker until the tip of his finger slides inside.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy? Never had your pussy fingered before?”

Steve doesn't answer, at least not at first. It looks like he's too preoccupied trying to get his breathing right, panting hard through his open mouth and staring down between them where one of Billy's hands is squeezing at his cock and the other is pushing a finger knuckle-deep into his ass. He's got this stupefied expression on his face still, brow furrowed in consternation or intense focus. Seeing as how he hasn't cussed Billy out or tried to get away, Billy thinks it's probably the latter.

Despite all his talk, Billy hasn't done this more than a couple of times. Still, he figures it can't be much different than fingering a girl. Especially when he curls his finger in a come-hither motion and Steve lets out a wobbly sounding groan and starts squirming in the seat again.

"You like that?" Billy says with a mean grin. And that, at least, finally earns him a glare.

"Fuck you," Steve hisses in response, but it lacks any real venom, because when Billy starts pumping his fist again Steve practically collapses against the passenger side door with a strangled sound that’s caught somewhere between a moan and a wince.

“ _Nah,_ ” Billy drawls, grinning meanly and dipping his head so he can tongue at Steve’s cumslit until the hand around his wrist darts to his hair and yanks him away. “Fuck _you,_ Harrington.”

His scalp hurts, and he feels like his wrist’s cramping and the center console keeps digging into his ribs, but _shit,_ Billy is so fucking hard it damn near makes his teeth ache. He tugs against the grip in his hair, and when it doesn’t slack crooks his finger again, rubbing and pressing like he’s looking for a G-spot somewhere way up Harrington’s ass.

And maybe he does find something like it. After a minute spent probing he seems to hit something that makes Steve squirm, makes him choke on a gasp and shudder. Billy grins and rubs that spot until Steve lets go of his hair and crams his knuckles into his mouth, instead. He pushes a second spit-slick finger into Steve, scissoring them a couple of times. Above him, Steve stifles a noise into his fist and scrunches his eyes closed again, dick twitching against Billy’s palm.

Billy wants to pull Steve’s fist out of his mouth so he can really hear him, but his hands are full at the moment. Besides, the visual is good enough on its own: Steve with his face bright red and his mouth agape and his eyelashes damp with tears.

It’s the kind of thing that would make a pretty picture, because Billy wants to remember this. He wants to commit every little detail to his memory. Every minute shift in Steve’s face. Every sound he buries against his fist.

And when Steve cums a second time, Billy wants to remember that, too. Hell, he doesn’t think he could forget it if he _wanted_ to, because Steve lets out a cry that’s both shocked and a little agonized, and his teeth dig hard into his knuckles, and his hole clenches so tightly around Billy’s fingers that he almost can’t pull them out again.

Steve’s cock gives a couple pathetic spurts into Billy’s fist, and then he’s collapsing against the door and panting hard like he just ran a few laps. He looks like he’s in a daze, like he’s temporarily checked out from reality after that second orgasm coursed through him. The only reaction Billy gets is when he squeezes at Steve’s softening dick and gets a slap on the wrist that hits hard enough to sting.

“Stop,” Steve rasps when Billy crooks his fingers again for good measure. His eyes blink open half-way, enough so that he can leer across at Billy, but he looks more pitiable than he does menacing.

Billy doesn’t _want_ to stop. He wants to keep working his fingers in deeper, wants to see if he can put a third one in Steve’s tight little hole. Maybe, if he gets him nice and loose and wet, he’ll be able to fuck him, right here in the front seat of the Camaro.

It’s a very tempting thought, and one that Billy tries to make a reality with another squelch of his fingers in and out of Steve’s ass.

Steve, however, has other ideas. All of the sudden, the hand around his cock is being shoved away with more force than a guy as fucked-out looking as Steve should manage. The next thing Billy knows, he’s getting pushed back towards his side of the cab, his wet fingers smearing cum onto the leather of his steering wheel as he catches himself.

“What, that too much for you?” he jeers, watching as Steve takes his sweet time coming down from his post-orgasm high. His dick is still out, shining wet as it softens against his thigh and Billy fucking wants _so badly_ to lean back into Steve’s space and suck him off again. The taste of salt and cum still sits heavy on his tongue and his own dick twitches against the zipper of his jeans, which he hadn’t even bothered to undo.

He does so now, working the button open so he can pull his dick out between the teeth of the zip, and himself in one sticky hand. It doesn’t escape him that his fingers are still covered in Steve’s cum, which is now on his dick. Billy smears it over the shaft with a sharp breath, and catches Steve’s eye across the way.

Steve is staring at him. It comes as a surprise, because Billy figured he would turn tail and run again, like he did the last time. Maybe he will once the daze has worn off.

Or maybe Steve will stay and watch. The thought alone has Billy’s blood running hotter, has him squeezing his cock in his hand with a low, throaty grunt. He holds Steve’s gaze as he starts jerking himself off, rough and quick, too worked up to care about edging himself — to care about anything, really, that isn’t that fucking _look_ Steve is giving him.

Steve’s dark eyes are still a little red-rimmed. His eyelashes are still wet. The blush on his cheeks has barely faded. And the way he’s staring at Billy — mouth parted like he’s in awe, unblinking like he’s intently drinking it all in — is turning Billy on more than it has any right to.

That, and Billy is crossfaded as hell. It must be why he only gets five pumps in before his stomach tenses and his balls draw up and he spills into his hand with a guttural moan.

It’s quicker than the first time he ever got pussy. Which, frankly, should either embarrass him or piss him off, but when Billy sinks back against the driver’s seat with a creak of leather and sees that Steve is still watching him like a fucking hawk, he can’t stay mad about it.

Instead, he spreads his legs a little wider and watches as Steve’s eyes dart down to where his dick rests against the crease of his thigh, just barely poking out from between his open fly.

“Like what you see, Harrington?” he drawls and pretends like he hadn’t just cum stupidly fast.

Steve inhales sharply through his nostrils and holds it. He gets this pinched look on his face, like he wants to say something but is desperately trying not to, and it’s honestly a surprise that he still hasn’t tried bolting. It looks like he’s _thinking_ about it.

But Steve inexplicably stays put, somehow meeting Billy’s stare even though he gets all squirmy about it.

Needless to say, there’s nothing convincing about the way he rolls his eyes and suddenly lets out the breath he’s been holding with an exaggerated _‘pfft’._

“Why would I?” he asks, throwing the question back like that absolves him of having to answer anything. “Told you I’m not a queer.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Billy sneers, showing his teeth while Steve’s face gradually reddens until it’s all pretty and rosy from the tips of his ears down under the collar of his shirt. Steve doesn’t rise to the bait, though, and Billy wants _some_ kind of reaction. He’s fucking desperate for it.

Desperate enough to bring his cum-slick fingers to his mouth, at any rate. He presses two past his lips, still maintaining eye contact and watching Steve watch him, then sucks them clean. He drags his tongue between the webbing, laps at the pads of each finger, leaves them both shiny and slick with spit when he pulls them out and wipes them off on his shirt along with the rest of his hand.

Then he tucks himself back in his jeans and reaches for a pack of cigarettes.

“ _Gross,_ man,” Steve grumbles. He hasn’t actually stopped staring, though by this point he looks less out of it — more uncomfortable than dazed. More like how Billy expects him to be after— _that._

But it’s still not going exactly how Billy thought it would, because Steve isn’t throwing any slurs his way, isn’t getting angry about it. He’s following Billy’s lead in getting his pants back on, instead, tearing his eyes away like he needs to see in order to figure out his zipper.

“Anyway, I, uh—” Steve speaks too quickly, like he’s nervous. When he reaches for the door handle, Billy briefly considers clicking the lock shut just to rile him up.

He decides not to.

“I gotta be somewhere for nine, so. Better head out.”

"Sure you do." Billy doesn't believe him and it shows, but he also doesn't stop him from stumbling out of the car with his weed and whatever scraps of pride he has left.

It feels like deja vu: Steve tears off in his BMW and Billy watches him go, but unlike last time it feels less like bitterness and more like _triumph_ coursing through his veins.

*

It’s not until a couple of weeks later that the high of proving his point gives way to a fresh wave of annoyance. Billy barely sees Steve around and the few times he does, Steve blatantly avoids him. They’re all busy, scrambling to finish their classes or get in their final college letters just before the summer starts, and it’s not like Billy expects Harrington to seek him out unless it’s in the middle of the night out by Lover’s Lake.

But even there Steve doesn’t show up, and the more nights go by, the more pissed off Billy gets.

At first, he thinks it’s because he needs to get laid. That has to be it. It’s been a couple of days since he’s really done anything, and jerking off after sucking Harrington’s dick doesn’t exactly count.

So, he finds Stacy. It’s as easy as ever to get under her skirt. She flirts and giggles and he puts up with it because she knows just how to get his dick wet. And it’s pretty good — it’s hot and messy and she spits on the tip just like he likes it before sucking the whole thing down. She’s nasty, wants to suck him when he’s _soft,_ is the thing. Likes to work him up to it until he’s aching and all she’s gotta do is lift her skirt and let him stick it in.

Except it takes _forever_. Billy keeps getting distracted; his mind wanders. He thinks about the weight of Harrington’s dick on his tongue when Stacy twists hers over his cock and it makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly. The smell of musk and weed can’t seem to leave his nostrils, even though he knows that Stacy bathes in some shitty floral perfume she steals from her mom’s vanity.

It’s so fucking bad that even _she_ notices, pulling off his dick after a fruitless few minutes to complain about the ache in her jaw.

“Maybe if you sucked cock better,” he snaps, and it devolves into a fight. Stacy slaps him and he probably ( _definitely)_ deserves it, but Billy is so fucking keyed up that he doesn’t feel the sting, doesn’t even _care_ when she throws him out of her house. He storms off and then rips down the street in the Camaro, revving the engine loud enough to startle the flocks of birds pecking for scraps on the road.

It happens again, just a few days later. Billy fingers some nameless senior girl in the bathroom at a house party and stays soft when she tries to return the favor by jacking him off. He blames her and the circumstances, of course; he’s never been that into handjobs, and whiskey does weird things to his dick when he drinks too much of it so, _whatever._

When he’s with Mary Harford a week after, Billy drinks enough to get drunk but not so much that he can’t fuck. It takes him a while to get off — he only manages to when he pushes her face into the mattress and fucks her from behind, but even then it’s unsatisfying. _Boring,_ even _._ He kicks her out of bed without returning the favor, and she stomps off after a few choice words that Billy knows he’s earned.

He stops fucking around after that. It doesn’t feel like there’s a point, anymore, between his uncooperative dick and the fact that school is ending. Soon enough, Billy won’t need to put notches in his bedpost for clout and fistbumps in the locker room. He’s done with the Hawkins cows, anyway, he tells himself. They were never worth his time.

Not that it makes him any less pissed off about the situation, but that might have more to do with the fact that Harrington hasn’t shown up at Lover’s Lake in weeks and won’t pay Billy more than a passing glance in the halls between classes.

Whatever. _Fuck_ Harrington, anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve experiments with something new. It doesn't go so well.

**May 24th, 1985**

Their daily ritual during school hours notwithstanding, Steve still rolls up to his and Billy’s usual haunting ground every Friday night. It’s some unspoken agreement between them, now. Steve provides the food or drinks. Billy rolls them up a blunt. Then they sit inside Billy’s car with the windows cracked open (if the weather’s decent) and _Metallica_ quietly playing as the backdrop to their aimless conversations.

Oh, and they fuck around. That’s always a given.

They’re on what Steve thinks are relatively neutral terms at this point. Billy’s still mean as a pit viper, but there’s less threat of Steve getting punched, and usually the worst his snark gets him is two fingers up his ass.

Steve only complains about that on principle. He kind of doesn’t hate it.

It’s muggy out tonight. Storm clouds have been billowing overhead all day, leaving the air feeling heavy and static. It will probably rain soon. There might even be a thunderstorm in the forecast. Steve never bothered checking the weather — he just makes a point of hurrying to the passenger-side door of the Camaro when he gets to the lake so his hair doesn’t flatten from the humidity.

“Thought we could try something different tonight,” Billy says by way of greeting as Steve drops a couple beers between them. Steve’s mind immediately jumps to sex — because when _doesn’t_ it? — and he can’t help but think of all the many things they haven’t tried yet. He hasn’t actually put his dick anywhere near Billy’s ass, for one. Maybe that’s off the table, but Billy sure does seem to like cock enough that Steve wonders if he’d be into that.

He gets a little hard just thinking about it, but Billy doesn’t give Steve long for his imagination to run wild. He fishes out a little clear plastic baggy from his pocket and holds it up. Where Steve expects to see a green nug of weed, he instead sees what looks like a strip of tiny, multi-colored stamps.

“You ever tripped on acid before?”

Steve hasn’t. He tried shrooms with Tommy once, but mostly they just made him feel sick, and in retrospect he wonders if they were even the ‘magic’ variety, or just something Tommy found growing in cow shit on a local farmer’s field.

Steve figures there probably isn’t much point in lying about it; it’s going to be obvious he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Nah,” he answers at length, still considering the baggy Billy’s holding out between them. “How much?”

Billy smirks and opens up the Ziploc. He tears two of the stamp-looking pieces of paper off and hands them to Steve.

“First trip’s on the house.”

Steve’s not actually sure what to do with acid. The tiny square papers are barely the size of his thumb nail, and up close he can see an innocuous looking happy face printed on each one. He decides to instead watch what Billy does with them.

“Just pop them in your mouth,” Billy instructs, apparently reading Steve’s mind — that, or Steve’s bewilderment is plain as day on his face. He waits for Billy to go first, but Billy’s staring at him expectantly. Steve half-wonders if this is a trick. He doesn’t want Billy thinking he’s about to pussy out, though, so after a moment spent psyching himself up, Steve pops the paper squares in his mouth, sucks on them for a moment, then swallows without thinking.

“Is that it?” Steve doesn’t feel anything. The papers didn’t taste like anything, either.

“Did you just swallow them?” Billy’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth twitching into a smirk. Steve feels his ears start to burn.

“Yeah,” he says. “Was I not supposed to?”

Billy tears off another two papers and sticks out his tongue demonstratively. Steve stares and tries to focus on what Billy’s doing, not all the things he’d like to imagine that tongue doing.

He watches as Billy pops the two papers under his tongue and then closes his mouth.

“You were _supposed_ to let them sit in there, stupid,” Billy sneers. “But whatever, you’re still gonna get fucked up.”

It’s not Steve’s fault Billy didn’t give him any instruction, but he doesn’t point this out — he just shrugs and rolls his eyes and cracks open one of the beers to take a swig.

Outside, the rain has just started. It’s a slow drizzle that turns the water of Lover’s Lake murky.

“So, am I supposed to feel something?” Steve asks, after a moment of contemplative silence.

“Well, since you just fucking _ate_ it, it’ll probably take longer. Give it time.”

That’s really not an answer.

“How much time? Ten minutes? An hour?” Steve glances over at Billy. He isn’t reaching for a beer yet, probably because he still has those LSD tabs under his tongue. He’s leaning back in his chair with his shirt mostly unbuttoned and a big, mean-looking grin on his lips as he stares back at Steve.

“Guess we’re gonna find out.”

Steve is already starting to regret taking drugs from Billy without asking for details. It’s not the stupidest thing he’s ever done before — no, sliding into Billy’s car the night of the Snow Ball was arguably the dumbest decision Steve’s made. Taking on a pack of Demodogs ranks up there, too.

Popping acid for the first time with Billy, of all people? Also fucking stupid. Steve just doesn’t realize the gravity of it until the shit starts to kick in.

He’s not sure how long it’s been. He hadn’t checked the time when he got here, but it was probably just after eight. It’s nine, now. They’ve spent most of the past hour drinking and talking NBA draft picks. It’s honestly shocking they haven’t started fooling around yet, but maybe Billy’s waiting for the trip to hit before he initiates.

Thing is, Steve was expecting it to hit hard. He figures that’s what acid is like — all kaleidoscope colors and crazy visual hallucinations. Hippie-dippie shit. He thinks it’s gonna hit him like a truck, so he waits for it with bated breath for the first half-hour, then figures either Billy’s acid isn’t strong or he fucked the trip up by swallowing it when he still feels nothing.

Maybe it’s the act of letting his guard down that causes the acid to kick in. Or maybe it’s been tuning up so slowly, Steve doesn’t notice it until he suddenly _does._

Billy’s talking when Steve first starts seeing little whorls of smoke in the air. It looks like it does any other time they hotbox the Camaro, only Steve doesn’t remember Billy sparking up a joint. He doesn’t think much of it at first, just swats at the air like he’s trying to clear it. Billy catches on after a beat and makes a face like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You alright there, Harrington?”

“What? Yeah. There’s smoke in your car,” Steve says, matter-of-fact. His ears burn when Billy’s grin grows wider, almost wolfish. Kinda reminds Steve of that cat from Alice in Wonderland — he can’t remember the name.

“Nah, you’re seeing shit,” Billy says, eyes crinkling with amusement. Steve can’t even get mad about it. He’s still fanning the air in front of his face, watching as the smoke twirls and then starts to change from shades of grey to a shifting blue the same color as Billy’s eyes.

“I guess,” Steve admits, though relenting that he’s hallucinating doesn’t make the smoke go away. It looks real. As real as Billy looks right now. Everything looks _really_ real, in fact, like Steve’s suddenly seeing the whole world clearer. It’s kind of disorienting. He can’t figure out how Billy looks so unfazed by it.

“Are _you_ seeing anything?”

Billy shrugs.

“Not really. Just some color shifts. I’m not the acid-virgin, though.”

The way he says it has Steve’s face burning, so he looks away, trying to pretend like he’s more interested in his beer than staring at Billy’s face. Steve blinks a few times, as though that will clear his vision of the smoke he’s still seeing. When that doesn’t work, he turns his face toward the window and stares out at the lake.

There’s very little light out tonight. The storm clouds have blotted out the moon, bathing the lake and its surrounding treeline in darkness. Rain pitter-patters on the windshield and the roof of Billy’s Camaro, a constant beat that threatens to drown out the sound of the rock music still carrying over the car radio. It reminds Steve of TV static. The more he listens to it, the more it fills his ears and draws his focus toward the rippling black surface of the lake.

The water almost looks alive. Steve could swear that it’s throbbing like a heartbeat. He can’t tear his eyes away.

There’s a shiver of movement in the nearby grass, and then, suddenly—

“Holy shit, are you seriously bugging out already?” Billy sounds like he’s on the verge of laughter — at Steve’s expense, obviously. He snatches Steve’s beer from his hands and takes a long drink before Steve can fumble to steal it back.

“You haven’t even peaked yet. Just wait.”

Steve isn’t sure he likes the sounds of that.

“Peaked?”

“Yeah,” Billy says, shoving Steve’s drink back into his hand. “Acid trips last all night. We haven’t even started.”

 _All night_ isn’t what Steve signed up for. He stares at Billy, momentarily aghast, and says: “Are you fucking serious?”

Billy looks unabashed.

“Loosen up, pretty boy. You’re about to go on the trip of your fucking life.”

This was stupid. _Really_ stupid. Steve shouldn’t have taken anything without asking for more details, but Billy could’ve at least been more candid about it. He doesn’t have to keep smirking at Steve like that, either.

“Relax,” Billy says, because apparently Steve’s face is that easy to read. “It’ll feel good if you let it.”

Steve wonders if maybe he should just go home and sleep it off. He thinks he could probably drive. He’s not so sure if he could sleep, though — every time he closes his eyes, he sees things. Patterns, mostly. Bright, colorful things that leave impressions upon his vision when he blinks his eyes open again. It’s kind of beautiful. Kind of chaotic, too. Steve isn’t sure how he feels about it.

He chews his lip and stares across at Billy. There’s still smoke swirling around the cabin of the Camaro, but it keeps changing colors, now. Through it all, Billy is clear as day like there’s sunshine illuminating him. Steve has to blink a few times to keep his eyes from aching at the contrast.

“Think I’d prefer it if _you_ made me feel good,” Steve murmurs after a few minutes — he’s not even sure what he’s replying to, anymore. Just that Billy visibly perks up when he says it.

“Yeah?” Billy’s grin looks shark-like. Literally. Steve could swear his teeth look sharp enough to cut skin. He’s not sure why that makes him shudder with anticipation, or why his skin feels sensitive and tingly when Billy slides closer so that their knees are brushing.

“You sure you want that right now? Might be too _intense_ for you…”

Billy punctuates that with a hand on Steve’s thigh. Just that bit of contact has Steve’s skin burning. He closes his eyes, breathes in sharply, and tries not to let himself feel overwhelmed by the abstract swirls pulsating behind his eyelids.

“Well?”

Steve doesn’t remember the question. He’s lost in his own head. His body feels hot and light and a bit like it’s vibrating, like there’s butterflies fluttering under every inch of his skin.

The warm weight on his thigh pulls away. The loss of it sits heavy in Steve’s gut, has him groaning in protest and reaching out blindly for Billy’s hand.

He can hear Billy laughing. It sounds like mocking laughter, but it’s still pleasant to Steve’s ears. It makes him forget about the static that’s started creeping back into his brain. He opens his eyes again and sees Billy leaning in close without quite touching him.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Billy asks. Steve still doesn’t know what the question is. Billy’s eyes look bluer than the ocean and prettier than sapphires and it’s all Steve seems to be able to think about.

“Yes?”

“You even know what you’re agreeing to?”

Steve frowns.

“No.”

Billy barks out another laugh and leans away from Steve again.

“Man, I should’ve only given you one tab. You’re fucked.”

That’s not reassuring. Steve chews at his bottom lip and looks away from Billy’s face and those too-intense eyes. He tries not to blink, because every time he does he sees the psychedelic patterns behind his eyelids. They’re getting more vivid. It’s a small comfort to stare out at the greyish water, but even that is dabbled with color, now — every drop of rain stains the brackish surface of the lake in shades of red and brown that diffuse out like drips of paint in a bucket of water. Steve watches, transfixed, and waits for the buzzing in his body to subside.

He can hear Billy beside him. Dimly. It’s more of a background noise, like the music still playing in the car. Steve is more tuned in to the static and the deep, rumbling noise he doesn’t hear so much as _feels_. It starts in his feet and moves up to his chest, a low, steady vibration carried through the earth.

Out on the horizon, a streak of red lightning cuts through the clouds, illuminating the sky and throwing shadows across Steve’s vision.

It’s only then, with that glimpse of light, that he sees it:

It stands among the trees, hulking and tall, with a twisted, humanoid body and a bulbous head that peels apart like the petals of a flower. Steve sees those familiar rows of serrated teeth. He hears it roar over the peeling sound of thunder.

His heart leaps into his throat. The creature fades into darkness, but he still sees the shadow of it quivering in and out sight, like there’s a fluorescent light hanging overhead flickering on and off. It’s close. The treeline is barely a hundred yards away. The rumbling in his chest grows faster.

It’s coming for them.

Steve can barely hear over the thunderous ringing in his ears. He isn’t sure if he’s even speaking, but he tries to work his jaw as he looks over at Billy, who’s staring at him with his brow all twisted in confusion. He didn’t see it. If he did, he wouldn’t still be sitting there with the stick shift in park.

“We gotta get out of here,” Steve says. Billy’s still staring at him. He doesn’t move for the steering wheel. Steve’s heart is jackhammering in his chest. “Don’t just stare at me, I’m serious! Fucking _drive!”_

“ _Hey!_ ” Billy’s voice cuts through the panic, if only briefly. There’s fingers in his face, snapping every time Steve turns his attention back to the treeline. It’s distracting; he can’t see the monster anymore, can’t even see it’s outline but he _knows_ it’s there. He can feel it, watching him. Waiting. For what, Steve doesn’t know. Doesn’t care, either.

He wants his bat. He wants Billy to start driving.

He wants the smoke to go _away_.

“Harrington?” Billy puts a hand on the stick shift, something like concern written across his features as he stares across at Steve, his face twisting and pulsing in and out of the shadows. “You’re just seeing shit. You know that, right?”

Still, Steve’s panic must be palpable because Billy flicks the headlights on, illuminating the treeline where the demogorgon had just been.

“Can’t believe I wasted good acid on you to wig the fuck out, man. Look—” he points out the front windshield. “There ain’t shit out there, okay?”

He’s right; when Steve looks outside, all he sees is rocky beach and swaying grass. The rain is coming down harder, now. It makes the water at the surface of the lake choppy and the trees shiver and sway. Steve glances at the edges of the headlights, where the shadows are long and trembling. He swears he can see something move.

“I know what I saw,” Steve snaps, because whether or not it’s just the acid, Steve knows it’s still out there. Doesn’t matter that he can’t see it now. He doesn’t need to.

What Steve _needs_ is something to protect himself with if Billy is gonna just sit there and talk like he’s crazy rather than drive them the hell away from here.

His heart is still thudding in the hollow of his throat as he suddenly throws the passenger side door open. It’s pouring out. The soil has turned to mud. The monster could be out there, but Steve knows he’s no safer holed up in the Camaro. He figures he might as well go down fighting.

Breathing in sharply to steel himself, Steve slides out of his seat and into the downpour.

Billy calls out after him, but his voice is drowned out by the patter of the rain and the roar in Steve's own head. He _knows_ the thing is out there. He knows it. And he's not going to face it empty-handed.

He stumbles all the way to the BMW before he realizes Billy is hot on his heels, drenched from the rain and visibly pissed.

"Are you _serious?_ " There's a fuzziness about him, like the edges of his shoulders and hair are bleeding together with the scenery and the rain. He kind of looks like he might just melt away, and then Steve really will be all alone in the darkness by the lake.

He fumbles with his keys while Billy looms nearby and gestures grandly at the treeline.

"Whatever the fuck it is, don't you think I would've seen it by now? Don't you think it would’ve come for us already?"

Steve’s hands are shaking. He drops his keys before he can pop the trunk, cursing as they land with a splash in a puddle of rainwater. He drops down to his knees to retrieve them, blindly groping through the mud to find them while Billy hovers over him.

It’s not that what Billy’s saying doesn’t make sense; Steve’s been wondering it, himself. How they can be standing out here, unarmed and vulnerable, and nothing’s come lunging for them from the woods. Not _yet._ It still feels inevitable. Steve can’t stop seeing shapes in the shadows and hearing otherworldly growls from the treeline with every crack of lightning.

His fingers feel numbed by the time they curl around his keys. When he moves to stand again, he stumbles forward, nearly landing face-first in the mud if not for Billy grabbing him by the back of his jacket and roughly hauling him to his feet.

Steve sways forward, off-balance. One of his muddy hands grabs at Billy’s soaked shirt. Billy’s face twists up in disgust, and maybe with something else, but Steve can’t make sense of it through the darkness and the rain.

“You don’t get it,” Steve mutters as he yanks his hand away and turns again for the trunk of his car. “I saw one crawl out of a fucking _ceiling._ Those things can disappear if they want to. If we’re not getting the fuck out of here, I’m getting a weapon.”

Billy looks like he’s going to take a swing. His face twists into an ugly grimace, and the pupils of his eyes keep getting bigger, then smaller again, going in and out of focus like he’s trying to hold onto his sanity or his sobriety or both. He looks pissed off, and Steve probably wouldn’t blame him if there wasn’t _something_ lurking in the shadows, looming just out of sight with too many teeth and too-long claws.

Maybe Billy’s just too fucking high to see it.

It would explain why he seems so much more concerned about the mud and the damp, and it’d explain why he hauls Steve away from the boot of his car, dragging him back towards the Camaro with a string of swears.

“Fine!” he shouts and shoves Steve up against the passenger-side door, pinning him there when Steve tries to squirm away.

“ _Fine._ We’ll leave. Get in the fucking car.”

Billy backs away only far enough for Steve to get the door open, like he suspects Steve might bolt if he gives him the space to. And to be fair, Steve might’ve. Instead, he casts one wary glance toward the treeline and then wrenches the door open so he can drop onto the leather seat.

He’s soaking wet. The leather feels tacky against his skin. When Steve glances down at his hands — still shaking, one still tightly-fisting his keys — he sees that they’re streaked with mud.

The sound of the car door slamming shut makes him jump; Steve looks over in time to watch Billy curse as he turns the keys in the ignition and throws the Camaro into reverse.

Outside the front windshield, another bolt of lightning streaks across the sky. Steve sees deformed claws stretch toward them from the beach, twitching and pulsating until he has to look away. He wraps his arms around his chest. Gets mud on his nice windbreaker. Tries to take a few breaths because maybe Billy’s right, maybe it is just an empty beach and Steve’s imagination.

When they reach the road, Billy is the first one to break the silence.

"What the _fuck,_ Harrington?" He drums an angry pattern on the steering wheel, clearly agitated with nowhere to direct it. Steve thinks the acid probably makes it worse. Even if Billy isn't _that_ high, he's gotta be feeling the effects. It's hard to concentrate on any one thing, and he feels guilty making Billy drive when they're both out of it like this.

But they're _safe_ , is the thing. And that's gotta be worth it, right?

Billy doesn't seem to think so.

He skids to a stop at a red light, slamming the brakes like he almost forgot they were an option, then whips his head around to glare at Steve.

"This is some dumb _shit_ you're pulling. Do you see fucking monsters under your bed, too?"

Steve recoils. He's still buzzing from the adrenaline rush, his heart beating hard against his ribcage, so Billy’s anger has him jumpy. Steve can’t muster his usual snark and snap something back. He presses himself against the passenger door, instead, and darts his eyes out the windshield, out to where the headlights cut through the downpour and the traffic light casts an eerie red glow through the mist.

He’s still not entirely convinced that they’re safe.

Then again, Steve hasn’t felt _safe_ in a long time.

It’s probably been minutes since Billy asked the question. It was probably rhetorical, too.

“Sometimes,” Steve mutters anyway. There’s a touch of sarcasm there, but it’s half-hearted. He’s distracted staring out at the intersection, watching the shadows that lurk at the boundary of the lights.

Billy doesn't say anything to that. Steve's grateful for the silence, even if a part of him kind of wishes there was something to fill it. And maybe he says that out loud, because suddenly there's the hard thrum of a bass guitar filling up the cabin. When he tears his eyes away from the blurry streetlamps streaking by outside, he sees Billy fiddle with the volume dial.

They ride like that, _Poison_ blaring in the background, for what feels like ages, even though it likely hasn’t been more than fifteen minutes when Billy takes a sharp left turn into a familiar parking lot illuminated by a set of golden arches.

Steve doesn’t feel that hungry. He tells Billy as much as he pulls up to the drive-through and rolls down the window. He’s still too anxious, too jittery to think about food. Billy just shrugs, says _‘more for me’,_ and orders enough shit for three people, topping it off with a strawberry milkshake and two chocolate chip cookies and a diet Coke. He holds his hand out and Steve slaps a twenty dollar bill into his waiting palm.

By the time Billy pulls the paper bag into the cabin, Steve is starting to regret not ordering anything for himself. He’s kind of peckish, now that he thinks about it. The smell of salt and grease is making his stomach lurch.

Billy parks the car at the edge of the lot, right under a brightly-lit streetlight, and Steve is halfway through contemplating the merits of braving the rain to get his own food when a box of chicken nuggets drops into his lap like a gift from above.

Steve wilts in relief. The smell that wafts past his nose leaves his mouth watering, so he plucks a nugget out of the box. There’s a little plastic container of honey, too. Like Billy actually _remembered_ Steve’s favorite dipping sauce _._

Steve glances sideways at him, watching as Billy takes a bite of his burger with less enthusiasm than usual. He looks distracted, and there’s a crease between his eyebrows like he’s perturbed by something. His eyes are focused straight ahead, though there’s nothing interesting to stare at in the empty parking lot.

Steve fidgets in his seat. Under the unrelenting glow of the streetlights, the night no longer looks so threatening. He’s starting to feel a little embarrassed, to be honest, because maybe he _was_ just seeing things. Maybe there weren’t any demogorgons lurking on the beach. El did close the portal, after all. The nightmare is supposed to be over.

It doesn’t really feel that way — Steve’s still jumpy more days than not. But the acid _definitely_ set him off, and now that he’s had some time to cool off, Steve feels stupid for freaking out in front of Billy.

He’s never going to live this one down.

Ashamed, Steve stews in silence for what feels like a long time. He picks at his food, eating just for the sake of having an excuse not to talk. Everything tastes slightly better than usual. The carbonation from his soda feels especially intriguing when Steve holds it in his mouth, feeling the tiny bubbles pop against his tongue.

He reaches for Billy’s milkshake and flinches when their fingers brush. Billy doesn’t say a word, just retracts his hand and leaves Steve to help himself — which is _weird_ and a bit suspicious. Steve decides not to question it.

The melted strawberry ice-cream turns out to be a good salve for Steve’s jitters, though by the time he’s helped himself to a few sips, the cold has seeped in and leaves him shivering. His clothes are still damp from the rain. So are Billy’s. That must be why Billy reaches to turn on the heat without being asked.

The tension between them is strange; they’ve shared in many prolonged silences in Billy’s car, but never quite like _this._ It feels like there’s something unspoken lingering in the air. Like they’re both caught up in their respective thoughts. Which might just be an effect of the acid. How’s Steve to know?

Still, he can’t help but feel like maybe he’s partly to blame for Billy’s stony silence. It’s starting to eat at him. He actually feels kind of _bad._

It's why, eventually, Steve decides to break the quiet:

“Hey, uh— Sorry for freaking out back there.”

Billy doesn’t say anything. When the silence drags on for another few seconds, Steve doesn’t think he’s going to. He feels better for apologizing, though, even if it’s kind of awkward to bring it up again. Steve figures it’s better than not saying anything at all, because at least this way Billy will chalk the whole thing up to a bad first trip.

The fact that Steve can taste every grain of crystalized sugar in the honey and still sees strange patterns every time he blinks lends a little bit more weight to that possibility, but it's just as well, because after Billy takes a drink from their shared Coke cup, he shrugs.

"Should've known you'd be a lightweight, Harrington," he says, with an air of finality.

Well, that's _that._

Steve expects more, but Billy looks preoccupied with what has to be his third burger of the night. He's probably too high to really lay into Steve. Or maybe, like Steve, he just wants to gloss over that unpleasant experience and move on with his night.

Whatever the case, Steve is grateful. The last thing he needs right now is to be lectured like some kid when he's already feeling twitchy.

Billy is the first to break the ensuing silence with a crinkle of his wrapper. He wads it up and tosses it in the old McDonald's bag, then takes a drink of the Coke and kicks his seat back.

"I got a pack of cigarettes in the glove box."

Steve nods with a mouthful of chicken and reaches into the glovebox for them. It takes him a couple tries — Steve’s fingers are numb and uncoordinated from the cold. Eventually, he manages to grab the pack and drop it onto Billy’s lap.

He sits back, then, and watches as Billy sparks up a lighter. The orange glow of the tip of his cigarette is entrancing. It seems to leak into the surrounding air, suffusing it with a splash of color. It lights up Billy’s face, too, and Steve can’t help but stare, watching the orange reflection in Billy’s eyes as he takes a long, satisfying drag.

When he blows out smoke, it swirls and forms curling patterns in the air, twisting and moving to the rhythm of the music as though it’s alive. Steve tries to follow it with his eyes, but his gaze keeps dragging back toward Billy. It’s just all so—

“Pretty,” Steve murmurs without thinking.

It isn’t until Billy catches his eye that Steve realizes he said that out loud. He can't decide whether he feels embarrassed about it or not. Billy’s expression isn’t really helping. He’s frowning, brows furrowed like he wants to say something, but in the end he keeps his mouth shut, too busy puffing on the end of the cigarette before silently offering the other half to Steve.

Steve doesn’t feel _bad_ about what he said — because it’s true, because Billy is one of the prettiest guys Steve’s ever seen — so in the end he decides it’s nothing to get hung up about and takes the proffered cigarette. He sinks against the leather seatback so he can watch the rain patter against the front window as he smokes and takes periodic sips of strawberry milkshake.

It’s not sleeting anymore. The _plip_ on the glass is kind of soothing. If Steve concentrates he can almost match the beat of the music still thrumming through the cabin to the drizzle of the rain.

His attention slides back to Billy every so often, so Steve steals clandestine glances of him out of the corner of his eye. Occasionally, they look at the same time, catch each other staring, and look away again as though caught.

The third time it happens, Billy raises his eyebrow and finally says something about it.

“Do I have something on my face, pretty boy?”

 _‘Pretty boy’._ The nickname sounds like honey on Billy’s tongue. Steve has come to like it, but that might just be because Billy doesn’t say it like an insult anymore. Not that it ever really _was,_ come to think of it. Steve’s not sure why he never realized before.

But now that he knows, hearing it does something funny to his chest. It’s hard not to smile; Steve is grinning like a fool when he meets Billy’s eyes again, but he can’t bring himself to care. It must be the acid.

Case in point: Steve finds himself getting distracted studying the patterns of faded freckles on Billy’s face for what has to be minutes on end before he remembers the question.

“No,” he says. “Just— didn’t realize you had so many freckles.”

Billy grins at that. It looks like he’s trying not to, like he’s biting it back before it can spread across his face, but he’s largely unsuccessful. Steve gets rewarded by a flash of dimples before Billy glances away. He huffs, something kind of like a laugh, then says:

“Hard to have freckles when there’s no sun in this bumfuck town.”

Steve can’t argue with that. Sure, there’s sun in the dead of summer, but it only lasts a couple of months and then it’s right back to overcast skies and rain at any given moment. Even now it picks up again, unrelenting. Raindrops patter against the roof of the Camaro, beating in time with _Blue Monday’s_ high clap.

Steve hums along. He’s already forgotten the thread of the conversation, but Billy’s voice drags him back, cutting through the rain and the muffled beat of the drums.

“Used to have a lot more, back in Cali.”

Steve has never been to California before. He’s been to plenty of other warm places — he has fond memories of drinking margaritas underage in Mexico and walking barefoot along the sandy white beaches of Greece — but Steve’s parents have never taken him along to a family trip on the west coast. He’d like to go sometime. There’s something about the way Billy’s expression gets all soft and wistful whenever he talks about his life in Cali that has Steve itching to visit.

He feels that same restlessness, now, as he counts the faded freckles across the wide bridge of Billy’s nose and wonders how many more there might be if Hawkins wasn’t so perpetually overcast.

“Where in Cali?” Steve asks. He doesn’t know many places there, but he wants to keep Billy talking, wants to see his blue eyes continue to sparkle like sunlight off the ocean and hear that same balmy warmth in his voice whenever he talks about his home state.

And anyway, Billy seems to be far more self-possessed than Steve, who finds he can barely talk without getting distracted by the light that seems to be pulsing through the windshield and the rivulets of rain that snake down the front windshield as though alive.

"San Diego,” Billy answers. For once, he doesn’t make Steve pry for him to elaborate, staring out into the rainy gloom while he talks. “I used to live in Chula Vista. It’s got the best surfing in the world.”

There's a smile tugging at one corner of Billy’s mouth, a touch of warmth in his eyes like he’s reliving a fond memory.

Steve doesn't know the first thing about Chula Vista, but he tries to imagine it. He wishes he could be there with Billy right now. Somewhere far away, on a warm, sunny beach with the tallest waves and the softest sand.

Somewhere far away from the monsters and bullshit that have made Hawkins so unwelcoming.

Talking about California keeps Steve’s mind off the shadows still quivering in the periphery of his vision, so he tries to keep the conversation alive and stay focused on the way the light from the golden arches catches in the rain and casts the wet asphalt of the parking lot in a soft glow.

“You surf?” Steve asks. It’s something he never knew about Billy. Come to think of it, there’s a lot he doesn’t know. It isn’t like they talk about personal shit; when they aren’t fucking, they’re chatting about things that don’t really matter: basketball; girls; which party they’re thinking of rolling up to next. Talking about anything of substance is uncharted waters. Steve pushes anyway.

“You any good at it?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Billy answers both of Steve’s questions with a snort.

In the silence that follows, Steve wracks his brain for another question, for something to get Billy to keep talking because he doesn't want this quiet to linger.

He doesn't know the first thing about surfing, though, so it's a relief when Billy speaks up again without prompting.

"Got my first board when I was eight," Billy says, "It came secondhand from some cousin, I guess. Mom said I'd grow into it, but it _sucked_ those first couple months, so I ended up swapping with a neighbor."

He looks over at Steve's and flashes his teeth in a grin.

"Joke's on him, though. The board he gave me was brand fucking new."

Billy’s smile is contagious, or Steve is just that fucking high. He’s not sure if it’s the natural progression of an acid trip, but he’s feeling giddy, now. The shadows outside no longer look so threatening. It might just be that it’s warm inside Billy’s car, and that the light of Billy’s smile is making Steve less paranoid of any small movements outside. He leans into the feeling — and toward Billy.

“Figures you’d be a surfer, too,” Steve says. “You’re pretty much a walking cliché.”

“Yeah, well…” Billy trails off, like he can’t seem to find a snappy comeback to that. And it’s not even that Steve meant it as an insult, or anything. He just finds it _funny_ , finds it strange, that there’s this Baywatch star washed up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere when he should probably be back in California _,_ flexing his muscles and surfing fifty-foot waves.

Billy reaches right back across the arm-rest to take the milkshake out of Steve’s hand and Steve doesn’t stop him, cracking open the window so he can flick out his cigarette but and then lounging back against the seat so he can watch Billy watch him.

“You’re _not_ a cliche,” is what Billy finally settles on, looking pleased with what he’s come up with.

Steve laughs. Well, it’s more of a giggle, really, bubbling up in his chest as he takes in the sight of Billy’s dimples and the subsequent look of curious bewilderment that moves across his face.

“That’s not what Nance used to say,” he murmurs. For a moment, Billy’s expression sours, puckering up like he just sucked on a lemon. It’s strange. Steve doesn’t have long to consider it before it’s whisked away, twisted up into something completely different — a sneer that’s all-too familiar yet lacking any real venom.

“Who cares what a prissy bitch has to say?” he scoffs. The comment stings. Steve is already gearing up to defend her, ready to tell Billy that she’s no _prissy bitch_ and that he should keep her damn name out of his mouth, but Billy flashes him a smile like he already knows what Steve is about to say, like he's doing this on purpose just to yank Steve’s chain.

"I mean, what kind of preppy straight boy fools around with guys on the weekends?"

There's no way those words weren't chosen specifically to make Steve flush, to make his face go splotchy red and his spirited defense of Nancy Wheeler die on his tongue.

Billy leans over him to pop open the glove compartment and fish out the package of Marlboros, shaking it when he leans back with a creak of leather.

"Doesn't _sound_ like a cliche, does it?" Billy taps another cigarette into his palm and offers it to Steve.

Steve feels his face burn and he can’t help the way a quiet laugh bubbles out of his throat. He’s giddy again, that same dizzy, light-headed feeling he’d had when his high first hit coming back in gradual waves. He’s been drawn into the ocean blue of Billy’s eyes, the twisting shadows outside forgotten. It’s easy to relax and to let his guard down again.

Steve takes the cigarette from Billy’s open palm, letting his fingertips linger there a second too long. They don’t usually smoke this much, but the acid’s got him fiending for another hit of nicotine.

So, he pops the filter end between his lips and leans forward like he expects Billy to light it.

Billy laughs but doesn’t hesitate to fish the lighter out of the cup holder. Steve isn’t sure if they’re laughing together, or if Billy is laughing _at_ him, but it doesn’t matter. Billy lights Steve’s cigarette and grins and Steve can barely get a good first hit in because he’s too busy swallowing his giggles.

It takes a couple of tries, but soon enough he’s sucking on the filter. Nicotine floods his mouth, tasting bitter and sharp and familiar. Steve isn’t sure when Billy started buying his favorite brand of cigarettes, but he could swear that Billy only ever used to have packs of Camels in his glove box.

Steve lets the smoke sit in his lungs a moment. When he moves to blow it out, Billy is all in his face, mouth hovering over his own.

The invitation is obvious. Steve isn’t one to turn down such a tempting offer. Still choking back a laugh, he leans forward and presses their mouths together so he can breathe out his smoke into Billy’s waiting mouth.

Billy inhales deep like he’s hungry for it. The pull of him is intense — Steve feels as though he’s being drawn forward, as if by Billy’s own personal gravity, and it’s impossible not to lean into it until he’s practically crawling into Billy’s lap. He’s not sure if that’s what Billy wanted, but Billy isn’t pushing him off or breaking from the kiss, so Steve figures he might as well get a hand in Billy’s hair and give it a playful tug.

Time stretches, slows down, turns into liquid around them. Billy’s hair feels like silk. His breath tastes like strawberry milkshake and tobacco.

Steve makes a sound, or maybe it’s Billy’s moan that rolls through him, warm like honey and paired with the sweet drag of his tongue. Billy kisses him wet and open-mouthed. It should be kind of weird, or maybe gross. There’s a lot of spit, Steve thinks, but he finds that he likes it, likes the way Billy licks into his mouth and sucks on his bottom lip until it’s tender.

Steve likes Billy’s hands, too. They’re everywhere. One slides under his shirt, blunt nails scratching through the fuzz on his stomach on the way to his chest while the other cradles the back of his neck. Every touch borders on aggressive, like Billy can't ever _stop_ being a little mean, even when he's making out instead of throwing hands.

His fingers pinch at one of Steve's nipples until he gasps and flinches away. Billy has the gall to laugh about it directly in Steve's face like the absolute asshole that he is.

Steve can't bring himself to retaliate, though. It might be because he's too high, the world now a melted kaleidoscope of colours and distorted sounds. It might also be because Steve is reeling from the pleasant scratch of Billy's fingers across his chest and the taste of strawberry still lingering on his tongue.

So, he lets Billy laugh at him. Lets those shark-like teeth grin back at him as he meets Billy's pretty blue eyes and takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Then Steve pauses, smoke held in his lungs until his chest feels heavy, and waits for Billy to make the first move.

He doesn’t have to wait very long. Billy is back on him, deliberate as he leans close enough to inhale the smoke from Steve’s mouth. He bites Steve’s stinging lip, and when Steve can’t help but gasp, Billy laughs until the smoke spills out from between his lips.

Billy looks like a dragon when he does that. Kinda reminds Steve of a lion, too, all golden and feral, hunched over Steve like he’s gonna _eat_ him, or something. The lines of his face keep shifting. Steve is caught in the glittering blue of his eyes. He’s drowning in them, in the way Billy stares, in the warmth of his hand where it’s pressed against his ribs.

Steve’s head kind of hurts. The edges of his vision have become fuzzy, keeping him from looking away as Billy dips his head and flicks his tongue over the exposed bit of Steve’s collarbone.

Steve feels like he’s a million miles away, floating above his body yet somehow still taking in every sensation. He could swear he sees himself in third person, watching himself as he shudders and barely chokes back a groan the moment Billy’s teeth graze his skin. His dick is already rock hard and straining against his jeans, which might’ve been mildly embarrassing if Steve wasn’t tripping, but if Billy notices he isn’t calling attention to it.

On second thought, Steve kind of _wants_ Billy to notice.

Steve moves, shifting so that he’s got one leg thrown over Billy’s and is straddling his knee. The pressure against his dick feels good, but it’s not enough, not even close.

So Steve does the logical thing, and grinds his hips down for a bit of friction.

Steve can't decide if it's because he's high or because he's with Billy, who has both hands on his hips and keeps encouraging him, but the friction feels incredible. Steve’s jeans feel too tight and his dick is aching, drooling pre along the inseam of his boxers. He rocks down again to whatever rhythm seems right in the moment.

It’s Billy who groans, though. The sound rumbles out of him, muffled by the skin of Steve’s throat. He mouths at it, works his teeth and his tongue over Steve’s collarbone until Steve feels raw and wrung out. His hand slips under Steve’s shirt, toys at his waist-band. The other slides into his back pocket.

Billy gets a good handful of his ass and squeezes it until Steve jumps and bares down hard on his knee. It aches in the best way. It leaves Steve hissing between his teeth and vengefully pulling at Billy’s hair until Billy tilts his head back and laughs. It sounds like it’s been punched out of him, like Billy’s surprised that Steve is still grinding against him, even now, when they’re both tripping acid seemingly too hard to take off any clothes.

Considering they’re still in the middle of a McDonald’s parking lot, that’s probably for the best.

Though truth be told, Steve is too focused on trying to rub his dick against Billy’s knee to care.

He’s not sure how he’s already this close. It has to be the acid. It might also be that Billy hasn’t stopped squeezing Steve’s ass or laughing that sharp, mean laugh of his. Steve doesn’t know why the sound turns him on so much, but it’s doing something for him every time Billy lets out a low, breathy chuckle.

“ _Fuck,”_ Steve gasps into the hollow between Billy’s throat and the leather seatback. “Keep doing that.”

“Doing _what?_ ” Billy asks between laughs. He must be tripping balls just as hard as Steve is, because he can’t seem to stop giggling even while he urges Steve to grind against him. He bites Steve’s throat; it stings a little, but Steve likes it, rolling his shoulders back so Billy has more room to trail his teeth.

“Just— _everything,”_ Steve groans, unable to offer a more specific answer. His thoughts are all incoherent mush. He can’t think, only _feel,_ and there’s so much to process right now. It’s like Billy’s hands and mouth are everywhere at once. Steve would forget to grind Billy’s knee if it wasn’t for the way Billy keeps rocking it up into him, reminding him of just how hard he is, of just how _close_ he is.

Then Billy catches his earlobe between his teeth and lets out another one of those low, vibrating chuckles, and Steve snaps.

It’s shocking just how good it feels when he cums. Steve has had plenty of orgasms before this one, but this time it’s different, _better,_ like the acid has dialed all his senses up to ten. There’s a starburst of color behind Steve’s eyelids as he shudders through it, his nails digging into Billy’s shoulders because it feels like if he doesn’t cling to something he’s going to float away into the stratosphere.

He’s too blissed out to hear himself groaning. His ears feel full of static and Billy’s breathing. Moments pass before Steve registers that Billy is saying something to him.

" _Shit._ " It kind of sounds like _Billy_ is the one who just came; his voice is rough, gravelly. His fingers flex against Steve’s hips and the roll of his knee stutters to a stop. He swears again, licks the sweat off Steve’s throat.

Steve’s dick gives a little twitch at that, and then again at the way Billy still paws at him, one hand squeezing his ass through the fabric of his jeans.

“ _That’s_ how you’re supposed to trip.” Billy sounds way too fucking smug, but Steve’s still riding too high to give a damn. He huffs a laugh against Billy’s shoulder and doesn’t stop him when he flicks open the button of his jeans and tugs on his zipper.

There’s a rustle of cloth, the sticky-wet feeling of Steve being _exposed_ to the balmy air of the cabin, his dick softening in a pool of his own cum. Billy whistles low, kind of sounds impressed as he pulls back the waistband of Steve’s boxers to get a good look.

“Damn, you’re so fucking _wet.”_

Steve’s ears burn. He tries to squirm away without _really_ trying, just to make a show of it. When all that earns him is another laugh, Steve groans and buries his face against Billy’s shoulder.

“ _Shhh,_ don’t kill my buzz, _”_ he mumbles; Steve’s tongue is heavy and his words slur one into the next. He feels exhausted, emptied out. It’s a good feeling, though, so Steve leans into it, lets himself slump against Billy as he blindly reaches between them to paw at Billy’s dick.

Billy spreads his legs in silent invitation. He's touching Steve's dick now, fingers trailing down the softening head and sliding wetly through the mess like he likes it.

He probably does. Billy's gross like that.

Steve doesn't exactly hate it, though. His skin feels like it's a little bit on fire, tingling wherever Billy touches him. He's surprisingly gentle and it doesn't actually hurt — not enough for Steve to push him away.

He's too busy fumbling with Billy's zipper, anyway. It takes longer than it should and Billy is no help whatsoever, but eventually Steve stuffs a hand down the front of his jeans, palm curling around the hot length of him. Billy groans. His dick smears pre over Steve's hand.

Steve jerks it all of a dozen times before Billy spills over his fingers with a shudder, thighs tense and mouth hanging open. He looks strung out; his eyes are glazed over and half-lidded, his face is slack, and it’s gotta be the acid, but Steve is struck by how beautiful Billy looks right then. Like something out of a dirty mag. Pretty in a way Steve never thought a boy could be.

He strokes Billy’s dick a few more times, slow and lazy, until Billy starts to fidget and Steve has the sense to pull away. Steve doesn’t move, though; he’s still straddling Billy’s lap, face buried against his shoulder as he watches the colors dance behind his eyelids.

Minutes pass, maybe hours. Billy is the one to break their silence because Steve is too comfortable basking in the afterglow to take the initiative. He feels a nudge, hands on his hips, and lifts his head just in time to catch the tail-end of a pout on Billy's lips, like he's upset at having to push Steve back into the passenger seat.

That might just be a trick of the lighting or the acid, though, because Billy clearly has no problem bodily shoving Steve off him until he's sprawled awkwardly back in the passenger seat, dick still out and his ears buzzing.

"Come on, princess,” Billy says, using some McDonald's napkins to wipe himself up and tossing the wad back in the take-out bag. "We're taking you home."

At first, Steve likes the sound of that; home means the comfort of his bed, and right now all he wants is to dive face-first into his mattress and roll up in his sheets.

Well, alright, that's not _all_ Steve wants.

He misses the warmth of Billy’s lap already. He kind of wants to crawl back on, but the distance feels untraversable at the moment, so Steve sinks deeper into his seat, instead, and gives a quiet grunt of protest.

“‘S too early to go home,” he grumbles, though truth be told Steve has no fucking idea what time it is. He’s still a little fuzzy on _where_ he is. It takes blinking groggily up at the illuminated golden arches in the rearview mirror to remember that they’re still parked outside McDonald’s.

“We’ll take the scenic route.” Billy finishes tucking himself back into his pants and makes some attempt to straighten his hair out. Which is stupid. Steve knows the first thing about sex-ruffled hair, and there’s no fixing the tangled mess where he’d clung too tight and crunched through the protective layer of shitty, dollar-store hairspray Billy apparently uses.

But Steve doesn’t say that. At least, he doesn’t think he does, even though Billy looks over at him like he can read his thoughts before he turns the engine over and flicks on the headlights.

The rain has stopped by the time they pull out of the parking lot and onto the main road. There’s a sliver of moonlight illuminating the dark clouds, and somehow just this faint glow is enough to chase away the alien shadows that had been lurking in Steve’s periphery. There’s nothing threatening about the empty stretch of asphalt ahead of them now. No demogorgons. No hulking figures in the sky.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. Now that he isn’t bugging out, the acid high is kind of pleasant. He almost doesn’t want this to end.

They’re more than half-way to Cherry Lane when Steve realizes where they are — he’s been zoning out to whatever rock song Billy has left playing quietly over the radio, watching the headlights reflect off the puddles on the road. It’s too early to turn in for the night. Steve’s still riding out his high. And yeah, normally after they’ve both gotten off they split, but right now Steve kind of just wants to keep this good time rolling.

“Hey, pull over.”

Billy throws him a sidelong glance, his notched eyebrow cocked. Steve wonders if Billy shaves it himself or if he’s got a scar there from some past fistfight.

He doesn’t verbalize his ‘why’, but Steve answers him anyway.

“I’m still tripping. I can’t go home like this,” he says. Steve hopes Billy will catch the implication: Steve’s parents are home, and if he goes inside obviously high, he’ll be in deep shit.

In actuality, they’ve been on a business trip for the past week, but Billy doesn’t have to know that.

Steve thinks that maybe Billy is going to call his bluff. Or maybe he'll pull over and tell him to walk it off. It looks like that's what he's thinking, at any rate, but after loitering at a stop sign for a few seconds, he takes a left turn away from Steve's house.

"I told you," Billy says, mindlessly rolling them through the neighborhood, "We're taking the scenic route."

Steve recognizes the area; it's mostly occupied by rich retirees who keep their curtains drawn and their lights off at night.

He wonders what any of them would think, if they peeked out and saw Billy Hargrove's blue Camaro rolling down their street.

Maybe it’s just the acid making Steve paranoid — if that’s even a _thing._ Either way, Steve can’t help but blurt:

“Let’s go loop around Hillside.”

Hillside is the nice park in town — the one the city keeps good care of because it’s in the wealthy neighborhood, and because it’s where all the local fairs and holiday celebrations are held. It also happens to be far away from any houses with potentially-nosey neighbors.

Steve knows this, because it’s where he used to park when he wanted to steal a few more kisses from Nancy before he drove her home.

“The fuck is there to look at around Hillside?”

_The fuck is there to look at in some ritzy neighborhood?_

Steve rolls the question around in his mouth, trying to decide if it's worth asking. But Billy’s question is obviously rhetorical because they're already turning out of the neighborhood and onto the part of Main Street that cuts through the wealthy part of town.

The sidewalk is neatly paved and framed by carefully-tended trees, their leaves just turning green as the final spring frost has dissipated. It’s nearly summer. They're going to graduate soon.

Steve wonders if these meet-ups are going to continue afterward. If Billy’s going to drive off to California the second he gets his diploma.

The thought sits heavy in his gut.

Billy drives them to Hillside. It's brighter here than by Lover's Lake, lamp-posts and fairy lights illuminating the trees and pagodas where kids have birthday parties and neighbors organize family reunions. There's no one out there now. At least no one Steve can see beyond the light mist of rain that makes everything around them look a little blurred.

Billy loops them around the park. There's some hiking trails that lead into the forest, but Billy steers clear of any road leading that way. They roll through at a crawl, and when Billy pulls up to a stop sign he lingers, reaching into the cup holder for his pack of cigarettes.

Steve watches Billy tap one out onto his palm and then press it between his lips. He doesn’t realize he’s staring as he watches Billy stick it between his lips. He doesn’t light it, just holds it there, like he just wants something to do with his mouth.

When Billy meets Steve’s eyes, it’s with a silent _‘the fuck you want?’_ that has Steve looking away. He turns his attention to the windshield, watching the streetlights streak by as Billy presses on the gas.

Steve isn’t sure how long they drive around the neighborhood. Or when exactly he managed to nod off. He’s disoriented when he jolts awake to Billy nudging at his shoulder. They’re not in Hillside anymore. It takes Steve a few seconds to register that they’re parked across from his parent’s empty driveway.

“That’s your place, right?” Billy asks, gesturing to the house like he doesn’t already know. And maybe he doesn’t. It’s not like they knew each other back when Steve threw parties every weekend, and even if they had, it’s not like Steve would have _invited_ him.

Steve nods before he can stop himself, still half-asleep and groggy with colors dancing across his vision.

Billy pokes him again. “Looks like we’re in luck, huh? Your parents must’ve gone on a drive at...”

He glances at the clock on his dash, then back at Steve. “Two in the morning.”

Steve feels like he’s being called out for his earlier lie, but he shrugs it off and Billy lets him without further comment.

Still struggling to wake up, Steve rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes and is relieved when the abstract shapes playing behind them are less intense than before. He’s mostly come down by now — he must have slept most of it off after he peaked. The fact that he’s still tripping at two in the fucking morning confirms what Billy said earlier: acid trips really _do_ last all night.

“When’s this supposed to wear off?” Steve mumbles. He hasn’t reached for his seatbelt yet. There’s no rush; anyone who could be watching them is fast asleep by now, and it’s not like Steve’s parents are waiting on him to come home.

“Whenever you wake up again,” Billy answers flippantly. He’s still watching Steve like a hawk. Steve gets the feeling that Billy wants to ask about his parents’ missing car or make a comment on the fact that Steve had lied to him about it.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t — Steve isn’t ready to admit he doesn’t want to sit at home alone. He doesn’t want Billy to know that he likes the company, or the backdrop of rock-and-roll music, or the smell of stale cigarettes and fries inside the cramped confines of the Camaro.

A realization hits Steve out of nowhere.

“Wait, what about my car?” It’s still parked at the lake. Steve can’t exactly walk out there, not unless he’s up for a two hour hike.

Billy looks unbothered by the question. He snorts, rolls his shoulder in a shrug, and says: “Your problem, not mine.”

Steve isn’t sure what he expected. Sometimes he has a lapse of judgement and forgets that Billy is an asshole.

“Can’t you give me a ride, or something?”

"No." Billy gives Steve this exasperated look like he's a parent trying to explain something really simple to a particularly slow child. "I'm not gonna drive you there just for you to crash your car 'cause you saw a ghost or some shit."

Steve opens his mouth to protest that, no, he didn’t see a _ghost_ — that, unlike ghosts, the demogorgon’s existence isn’t in question. That he’s fucking swung a bat at one and it sure as hell felt _real._

But then he realizes that he can’t tell Billy any of that. It’s not like Billy would even believe him. Besides, who knows who’s listening? Either people are going to think Steve’s crazy, or they’re gonna believe him, and in either case that knowledge is a liability.

Because as much as Billy is an unconscionable asshole, Steve doesn’t want him to get _disappeared_ by the Feds, or whoever the hell wants to keep the Upside Down all hush-hush _._

So, he clicks his jaw shut and swings open the car door with more force than necessary. He’s tempted to slide out and slam it closed without a goodbye, because he’s pissed about the fact that he’s going to have to figure out how to get his car back tomorrow, and he knows how much Billy hates anyone handling his ‘baby’ too roughly.

Instead, Steve hesitates. He glances over at Billy, who stares back at him. _Expectant._

Steve isn’t sure why that flusters him. He tears his eyes away again to break the intensity of the moment, but he can feel Billy watching him as he fumbles with his seatbelt.

“Well, thanks for not leaving me in a ditch,” he mutters. Because, _yeah,_ that kind of seems like something Billy would do.

"You're welcome."

The way Billy says it, like he’s chosen to ignore the sarcasm in Steve's voice, should annoy him more than it does. But Steve can't bring himself to do more than roll his eyes as he finally unclicks the seatbelt and stumbles out of the passenger seat.

Billy watches him right himself, watches him smooth his shirt out and rake his fingers through his hair like he’s preparing to go back in and actually face his parents, even though they both know that they’re not home. Steve knows he’s stalling, and figures it must be obvious given the way Billy pointedly reaches over to turn his music up louder.

“I’ll catch you around, pretty boy.”

It’s a promise that Steve knows Billy is going to make good on. He knows that, even if he wasn’t crawling into Billy’s car every Friday night or waiting for him underneath the bleachers, Billy would find him. It’s inevitable. _Billy_ is inevitable.

“Yeah,” Steve says, though he isn’t sure that Billy can hear him over the music as Steve steps out onto the curb. “See you around.”

The muffled sound of rock music follows Steve to his front door. It isn’t until he gets it open that the Camaro’s engine revs, and by the time Steve glances over his shoulder, Billy has disappeared into the night like a dream. Or a nightmare.

Steve still hasn’t figured out which one it is.

*

“So, tell me again why you left your car out here?”

Nancy is peering at him through the rearview mirror. To her left, Jonathan is sitting silently in the driver’s seat. He hasn’t said much. He doesn’t tend to when Steve is around — which is fair, all things considered. Forgive but never forget. Steve gets it.

Still, it makes the drive awkward as hell. Steve has been sitting in the backseat restlessly bobbing his knee the entire ride. At Nancy’s question, he stops. The pointedness of her stare makes him feel caught before he’s even admitted anything.

“I, uh, was out there drinking with a… friend.” He tacks the last word on and cringes inwardly at how unconvincing his lie sounds. “I needed a ride home after.”

In her reflection, Nancy regards him with a raised eyebrow.

“A friend,” she echoes. She clearly doesn’t believe him, but Steve pretends not to notice her unspoken question. She’s wondering who he could have possibly been drinking with after his falling out with Tommy, given that the only friends Steve hangs out with any regularity are too young to drive.

Thankfully, Nancy doesn’t push him for answers. Steve is glad she doesn’t; he’s not sure how he could explain why he and Billy have been getting high together, and frankly he’d rather not let it get out that they’re even _interacting_. It’s bad enough that Henderson thinks Steve has a ‘secret girlfriend’ and won’t stop grilling him for details. He doesn’t need Nancy and Jonathan wondering after his personal life, too.

Nancy drops the conversation and Steve has never been more grateful for the awkward silence that lasts the rest of the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to everyone in the comments and our inboxes who have been cheering us on -- we appreciate you! 
> 
> We're sorry about the delayed update. Life has gotten busy and we haven't been able to write as often as we'd like, but rest assured this fic has not been abandoned. The next couple chapters have already been written, so expect less time in between posts. ;)
> 
> As always, leave us a comment and feel free to reach out to us on tumblr!


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